


Veils of Truth

by NonBinaryStars



Series: The Compass [4]
Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Hammond continues to be the WORST, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Tharkay and Roland are still really solid metamours, affirmative consent, aftercare is an essential part of This Balanced Breakfast, all the lil chickens are coming home to roost, and Gong Su is still chill af, being raised by The Patriarchy will fuck you all the way up, everybody just has a lot of things to work though ok?, intersectional trauma, it's my fic and i'll have gratuitous descriptions of improbably pretty things if i want 'em, look if you've gotten this far you know what to expect right?, recovery isn't linear but this fic (mostly) is, the gender binary is Fake News propagated by Racist Colonizers, the real MVP was the friends we made along the way aka Arkady
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:41:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28444095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonBinaryStars/pseuds/NonBinaryStars
Summary: “सुभाय्, tata,” she said. “Ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ.”Too many selves were colliding all at once, at a time when Tharkay could least afford it.Part IV of the Compass Series -- picks up partway through League of Dragons.
Relationships: Tenzing Tharkay & Everybody Else, William Laurence & Tenzing Tharkay, William Laurence/Tenzing Tharkay
Series: The Compass [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817851
Comments: 293
Kudos: 26





	1. Dieppe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, SO WE’RE DOING THIS 
> 
> Ashokan Farewell, Nashville Chamber Orchestra version.
> 
> *asterisks, canon, etc*

#  **Dieppe ;**

**or,**

**Tharkay finds nourishment**

*******

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Alsace_

_8 Novembre 1805_

_Ma Chère Maman,_

_Ce matin j'étais réveillé par le cri du coq au lever du soleil, exactement comme chez nous._

  
  
  


***

  
  


There was something frightfully familiar about the hatchling, something which Tharkay’s burnt-out shell of a brain could not identify: his mind had by now gone entirely to ash, blowing cold in the wind. 

*“I do not deny there was a risk, but one must take risks occasionally to achieve one’s ends, when there is no better way of going about it,”* said the little one to Temeraire -- who now that they were safely away had begun to put up an enormous fuss, over her method of rescue. 

And hadn’t he said nearly that _exact_ thing to Granby -- in defense of Temeraire’s judgement, no less -- just a few nights and a lifetime ago? 

*“There is no sense lamenting a necessary evil,”* the dragonet pointed out reasonably. 

Oh. _Oh,_ _ohhhhh...._

***

  
  


_La ferme me manque, of course, aussi que the hills -- Maman, we crossed the_ _Alps_ _not long since, and never have I seen such peaks! In fact I am very grateful to be seeing the world, though I think often of home, and of you. I hope you are not lonely without me._

_(I hope that you will finally allow yourself to return M. Pierrot’s affections, now that I have left you on your own -- he dotes on you so, and Father has been buried nearly fifteen years: I think he would want you to be happy. I certainly do.)_

  
  


***

  
  


“I cannot say that I have perceived any distinction among the nations of the world which should entitle any of them to either my full approval or condemnation,”* said the dragonet. *“I have heard more than enough, being carted here and there and exchanged from one side to another, to persuade me that none are without blame for this unhappy state of quarreling and perpetual warfare. That, I can heartily condemn. It seems perfectly plain to me that it is war itself which must be halted, without wanting one side or another defeated in particular.”* 

Oh. _Oh._ Oh Mother, oh Aji, _oh_ … 

Tharkay’s heart was expanding, condensing, crystallizing -- he had never known this, this flooding, _drenching_ pride -- to see all of one’s truth and rage and resolve coalesce into a single being, into a single being which just _moments ago_ had been an _egg,_ had been the egg which had kept him company through his convalescence in Peking; to which he and Sipho had -- oh, _oh,_ he would _die_ for her: yes, and _willingly_ so. 

“I would be very happy to see war come to an end, myself; although a neat little skirmish now and then, with a prize after, no-one could really object to, I think,” Temeraire was saying -- _d_ _earest_ Temeraire. “But I should like to know a great deal how you suppose anyone should accomplish that.”* 

*“Well, I don’t know, yet,” said the dragonet, “but I mean to find a way: just because the business will be difficult is no excuse for not making the attempt.”* 

Oh, Tharkay would even die _cheerfully,_ for this dear little one _._

  
  


***

  
  


_I caught sight of Madame Lien today -- oh, did my heart soar!_

_We sing songs of her, you know, marching-songs. I will transcribe one of them for you, as soon as I’ve learned the words. Two of my tent-mates, Guy and Tancrède by name, are teaching them to me._

_Vive l’Empereur! Vive la France!_

_Avec tout mon amour,_

_Ton Guillaume_

  
  


***

  
  


They found an abandoned farm near sunrise, and took shelter in the dilapidated barn. 

*Laurence was arranging handfuls of dry straw himself, with splinters, to make tinder for the armful of wood Granby set down. The fire would be a fresh risk, but in the half-light of morning the smoke might pass unnoticed: they were a good distance from any road but a half-overgrown track.*

Tharkay could not watch Laurence’s hands move through the familiar ritual, no; not when his own were frozen stiff and clawed with pain. No, no -- he could not watch those hands make that circle of stones, twist those knots of hay; he could not, he could _not --_

He stood. “I will secure the area.” 

She walked away -- _no, not like that, not like that -- he_ walked away, _he_ walked out of the barn, and, skirting the edge of the trees, crept along the perimeter of the property toward the farmhouse. 

  
  


***

  
  


“Come, Aji,” said Tenzing. “Let’s get you to bed, hmm?” 

“You just don’t want to lose again,” said his aji wickedly, and she wasn’t wrong. 

“We’ll play again tomorrow.” He smiled: the words were no longer clumsy in his mouth. “And I’ll win, you’ll see. But it’s late.” 

“You think _you_ can best _me?_ I brought you into this world, my child; I’ll beat you out of it morning, noon, and night,” she retorted, but suffered herself to be carried to bed nonetheless. “Tend to the fire; it’s burning low.” 

“Yes, Aji.” He tucked her in, and kissed her forehead. “Like mountains and rivers.” 

“Tenzing, my baby,” she sighed. “How glad I am, how blessed, to know that you’ve come home.” 

  
  


***

  
  


_How will we live through the cold dark night?  
_ _My dear, it’s as simple as Black and White!_

 _How will we finally conquer the day?  
_ _Our Fair Lady will keep the Black Devil at bay!_

 _If we but follow her gracious decree  
_ _She will lead us to glory, and sweet victory_

 _Her word is as just as her scales are fair  
_ _Our gleaming white beacon beyond compare_

 _Vive L’Empereur! Vive La France!  
_ _Vive le Pouvoir de Notre Dame Blanche!_

  
  


***

  
  


Tharkay stopped short: the dragonet had put herself in his path. 

She cocked her head. “I remember you,” she said. “You sang to me, you and the other little one.” 

“Yes,” said Tharkay. 

And then the dragonet had darted in to wrap around his legs, and she rubbed her cheek against his side. “सुभाय्, tata,” she said. “Ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ.” 

_Oh,_ his ribs, her _ribs…_ oh, oh, where were her _stays?_

No. _No,_ not like that, not here. 

She was gone with his next exhale, quick and quiet as smoke. 

  
  


*** 

  
  


_We fought the Black Devil today, and won! Guy says the villagers will soon thank us, for the Devil and his minions have long been terrorizing the countryside, and we will have rid them of a terrible scourge indeed._

_We are doing them a very great service, surely -- finally, these ungrateful serfs have received enlightenment at our hands, and become part of our glorious Empire!_

_Vive L'Empereur! Vive La France!_

_Vive le Pouvoir de Notre Dame Blanche!_

  
  


***

  
  


Tharkay barely made it into the farmhouse before collapsing, right into a massive chair at the head of a long trestle table. 

She was here. No, _he_ was here, he was _here_ \-- he was here here _here_ with the slanting light and the wooden table and -- and a pile of papers, _letters,_ there were paper letters on the wooden table, and -- 

And the dragonet -- and, and Laurence -- and Falakji, and the dragonet, and Laurence, and Bonaparte -- Laurence had, Laurence had -- and Junichiro had gone to Bonaparte, and, and -- Granby, and Laurence -- and Preeti, and _Falak --_ and _Laurence -- no, no._

_No._

Too many selves were colliding all at once, at a time when Tharkay could least afford it. 

_Look from the front, look from behind._

True, it had never been any more difficult for him to become Zhu Li or Eadora than it had to become Arjun, or Omar, or Abdelkader -- he had already known _that_ much, at least: shapeshifting had long been part of his nature -- _in other places: not like this --_

No, not like this: Lumanti… Lumanti had been different. _Easier._ Like… swimming, like flying, or breathing, or, or Tenzing, or _Tenzing_ \-- and none of those other names had ever been a _part_ of him, had ever been _connected_ to him thus. 

_Look at your face by yourself._

And then Falakji had -- had called her Lumanti, had _named_ her: Lumanti _Cloudspeaky._

More names, connected. 

_Breathe. Like this, like the waves. You are here, you are yourself._

He’d felt like… like himself, like _herself,_ like -- like _\-- you look just like your mother, my baby -- you look just like my daughter, young man -- why, Lumanti, how elegant you --_

No. Stay here, stay _here._

Too many, too many, too many selves colliding, all at once. 

Tharkay groped for the letters, the letters -- the paper letters, here on the wooden trestle table. 

  
  


***

  
  


_The way is hard, but my spirits are undaunted, Maman, for I keep Notre Dame Blanche in my heart always. She guides our way, she keeps us safe from the Foreigners: the Barbarians, and the Black Devil._

_We will drive them out, yes, we will drive them back, and back, and back, until all the world sees the Light of Empire._

  
  


***

  
  


“थ्व हे मचा बचे जुसा जोलिंजोल बखुन बोयके, लुंयागु ओयागु द्वाफो स्वान छाय.14” _If my child lives…_

Someone was weeping. “Aji,” said Tenzing. “Aji, I’m here.” 

“सुरज कोमजो थाल चिकुं पुना मचा सित, माम बुबां नुग दाया खोल.15” _A child died of cold, at a place where no sunlight fell…_ “They came for us, the soldiers -- where is Tenzing?” Her voice rose. “Where’s my _baby?”_

Tenzing kissed her forehead and tightened his hold. “I’m here, Aji; I’m here, I’m home.” He rocked her slowly, slowly. 

“सीम्ह मचा उयमदु मचा गाले थुनेमदु16...” _We could neither cremate the dead child, nor bury them in a pit…_

“ -- परजाया गथिन हवाल,16” they sang together. _Oh,_ how, _how_ could he have forgotten this? _Behold, O Mother Goddess, the piteous state of your people!_ A blessing to know, a blessing to learn, a blessing to _remember…_

A heart beat steady beneath him, part of a rhythm which had sustained him all the long way from the mountains, all the long way home. “Don’t cry, Aji, don’t cry,” said Tenzing in his mother tongue. “I survived, I survived, we are here together, I am here.” 

  
  


***

  
  


_Guy says that Notre Dame Blanche has abandoned us._

_Tancrède says the Black Devil is the one responsible._

_I think it doesn’t matter: we are down to shoe leather, one way or another._

  
  


***

  
  


Tharkay’s back hit the wall.

He slid to the floor beneath the window. The sheaf of letters was still clutched between his hands; dust motes danced in the grey morning light.

Was someone weeping? 

  
  


***

  
  


_Guy is dead._

_Tancrède says there is no shame in finding comfort where we may._

_Notre Dame Blanche says the Black Devil and his Whore will come to damn us all, to drown us in flames._

_Maman, I’ve done so many awful things -- I am no longer the boy you knew -- I am not sure I even know myself, anymore._

_Will you still love me, if I ever come home? Am I still worthy of it?_

_Am I still your Guillaume?_

  
  


***

  
  


“Lumanti,” said his aji. “Where is Tenzing? Where’s my baby?” 

“Don’t worry, Maa.” Lips to forehead, gentle, gentle. “He’ll be home soon.” 

“Good.” She smiled. “Go out back to the garden, and bring me some carrots and potatoes to make samebaji. It’s his favorite.” 

“Yes, Maa, I will,” said Tenzing. Arms, cradling. “After you’ve gone to sleep.” 

“You’re a good girl, Lumanti,” said his aji. “I praise God for you, I -- 

_“I shall perform arati before the venerable Ghana,”_ she sang, and Tenzing joined in. 

> _“Day and night I shall invoke the name of Dasabala,”_ they sang together. 
> 
> _“I shall do worship with grains of unbroken rice, sandalwood powder, flowers, incense, rasa, and lamps._
> 
> _“I shall play the cymbals, the mrdanga and the dholaka, and, along with the damaru and other musical instruments, I shall blow the conch._
> 
> _“Know the year by joining mountain, ocean, and jewel. Folding my hands again and again, I shall say my prayer."_

“Tenzing knows all the words already,” said his aji with pride. “So young, he is, and so very brilliant. You must help him shine, Lumanti, nurture that spark; he will need -- he will need -- 

“Go out back to the garden,” she said again. “And bring me back some black-eyed peas for the samebaji -- it’s his favorite.” And she closed her eyes and sighed, a sigh that went on, and on, and on -- 

“Yes, मां,” said Lumanti gently. “I will.” 

She stood, knees unsteady, and stumbled toward the door. 

Not here, not _here,_ this was not now -- she was not here, she was not _then_ \-- _he_ was here -- he was _here,_ in the farmhouse in the woods and the cold, and it was -- so cold, but there were -- _go out back to the garden, and bring me back some black-eyed peas --_

There was a garden, here. There was a garden, out back. 

And as Tharkay crossed the room he caught sight of one last letter, lying on the floor as if having been slid under the door by a neighbor. He had to use both hands to pick it up, so frozen were his fingers, and -- and he dropped it immediately, upon catching sight of its provenance. 

O Mother Durga -- O God, O Shikali Devi, O Ghana, O Christ -- had he ever _truly_ thought there was a part of him which did not want the war to end? It had to end, it _had_ to. No more of this -- no more, no more. The tyrant had to be stopped; he would never rest; he would continue to send boys like this to die with their bowels spilling into their hands, freezing and alone and miles from home -- _so much worse, somehow --_

_Breathe. Not here, not like this._

There was a garden, here is a garden, go to the garden out back. 

_Bring me some carrots and potatoes --_

Hands. Frozen hands -- bloody hands -- hands and knees, digging in cold brown dirt. 

_Breathe._

  
  


_***_

  
_Maman, Maman, it is cowardly of me perhaps, but I want to come home._

_I want to come home and listen to you scold me over the proper way to milk the cow, or feed the hens -- or else sit at your feet as you cut my hair, and lecture me about correct angle at which to swing a scythe._

_I want to press apples into cider at harvest-time. I want to hear your lullabies._

  
  
  


***

  
  


It had not been until after Tharkay slid the flying-coat over Laurence’s shoulders that Laurence was able to meet his eyes, and even then it was only briefly. “My father is dead.”

Oh. _Oh._

It changed nothing -- Laurence had still been _inexcusably_ stupid, but -- but -- _oh…_

_Dig. Beneath the frozen surface, dig -- there is grace, there is, you have it, you can find it --_

Tharkay put his hand to the side of Laurence’s face: held him in it, pinned him there. “I am sorry,” he said softly, “that he will never realize the -- the honor, the _joy_ of knowing you, that he will never have the opportunity to try.” 

And -- and now, _here,_ Laurence had -- Laurence had -- _like mountains and rivers --_ no, he could not think of it, could not, could _not --_

“Athena, Cassandra, T-- Tharkay, I -- I -- _Tharkay.”_ Lips, soft upon his palm. 

_No._ Stop it, stop it. _Hold yourself together: in times of great --_

Tharkay withdrew his hand. “We’re needed.” 

_Good men cannot rest. Cannot rest. Cannot rest._

Twenty years. Nearly twenty years, since -- 

  
  


***

  
  


_All are dead. All, all: no comfort, anywhere._

_How will we live through the cold dark night?_

_I'm scared, Maman. I love you, no matter what happens._

  
  
  


***

  
  


*“The Chinese may say what they like,” Granby was saying, “and I am sure it answers for them; but I should be a great deal easier if this one had a captain to call her to order from the moment she came out of the shell.”*

\-- no. _No._

*“You will permit me a little skepticism as to the hypothetical man’s likely success.”* Tharkay could not help the clipped tone which emerged from him as he came ‘round the corner: he had been scraping his frozen hands bloody digging for provisions, and meanwhile Granby had been talking of _harnessing his baby,_ and -- 

And now _Laurence,_ Laurence -- Laurence was looking up at him like -- _stop. Stop it._

*“There is a vegetable garden against the side of the house; it seemed likely,”* said Tharkay, breaking their gaze, and dumped the armful of half-frozen carrots and potatoes he’d managed to dig up using his belt-knife. *“We are fortunate in our choice of hiding-place, I think: there were some letters inside from a son gone to be a soldier, written to a widowed mother -- the latest half a year old, from Smolensk, and unopened. I dare say there are many young men who will not be coming home.”* 

Laurence dropped his eyes, and Granby roused Iskierka to start the fire. The air was heavy and cold: somber, even so. 

The vegetables were roasting in the coals; the snow was a-melting in the little tin pail from the farmhouse; and after a while, when they were a little more revived, *Laurence scratched in the dirt his best memory of the coastline, and they considered the distance.* 

Tharkay smirked. Granby snorted. 

“Stop it,” said Laurence. 

“I said nothing,” said Tharkay. 

“Didn’t have to,” muttered Granby. *“We had better go by sea, if we think they can manage it.”*

*“I will be so bold as to be certain that we are scarcely a hundred miles from Eastbourne, flown north-north-west,”* said Laurence. 

_“_ So bold as to be _certain,_ estimates our fair Captain,” snickered Tharkay under his breath, and Granby snorted again. 

*“And once we are fairly into the Channel,”* continued Laurence, rolling his eyes, *“most ships of the blockade can throw us out some pontoons if we should get into trouble with a cross-wind. We may have some difficulty signaling, if they do not recognize us.”* 

*“That don’t worry me,”* said Granby. *“It would be wonderful indeed if any captain who has been in the Channel since the year seven didn’t remember Iskierka, and curse to see her coming to snatch a prize out from under his teeth. They would be heartily delighted to see her drown, but I suppose they shan’t turn us away if we appear on their doorstep, as it were. We’ll have to go on from there to Dover straightaway, though—there’s a covert at Eastbourne, but it is not much more than a courier-stop; they won’t like us dropping by with a couple of heavy-weights and a fresh-hatched beast.”*

No. _No,_ absolutely not -- 

*“Do you insist upon making for a covert?”* Tharkay asked, anger fizzing beneath his fingernails -- for Granby had called her a _beast._ *“I trust you will forgive my raising a point of concern,”* he added, when his fellows looked up in puzzlement, *“but do you suppose your hatchling likely to be impressed by the conditions she will find at Dover, compared with those she has lately left behind—before she set them on fire, that is.”*

Granby and Laurence stared. In point of fact Tharkay was shocked by the violence of his own internal response -- _you will never harness my heartsung, colonizer; over my dead body will you douse her lሄuuxRoa --_ but he did not drop his gaze. 

*“Well,” Granby said, and halted there.* 

Laurence was the one to break the silence, sounding as weary as they all felt. *“Let us get out of France, first. We must content ourselves with escaping Bonaparte’s borders before we can entertain other concerns.”* 

Well, and _that_ much was certainly true. 

_Calm yourself. Breathe. Breathe, Tenzing; hold yourself together. In times of great need…_

“I’ll take first watch,” said Granby, and caught Tharkay’s eye. “Outside.” 

Shooting Granby a grateful look in return, Tharkay grabbed Laurence’s hand and fled before Will could do something daft and gallant, like demur. 

  
  


***

  
  


_I love you. I miss you. God Willing, I’ll be home soon._

_Vive la France._

  
  


_Guillaume_

_***_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q) How’d Kxhaa & Falak put two and two together?  
> Falak: so i met the most interesting human the other day, kinda made me think some things  
> Kxhaa: lemme guess  
> Kxhaa: long dark hair, impertinent little shit, smells like [incomprehensibly specific Durzagh phrase]?  
> Falak: aaaahhhhh omg yes, that’s the one! how’d you know??  
> Kxhaa: fucking CLOUDSPEAKY 
> 
> ***
> 
> So it’s December 30 2020 and I’m saying this here in hopes it’ll manifest: I’m gonna try to ring in the New Year properly for Our Men, and post chapter 2 in the next day or so. 
> 
> They certainly deserve it, after all. 
> 
> Still with me? Let me know in the comments -- it really does keep me going, to know folks are out there listening/reading/witnessing. 
> 
> With all my gratitude,  
> nb***


	2. The Hayloft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: gender & cultural trauma 
> 
> Shenandoah / The Water Is Wide by Leon Bibb & Eric Bibb, from their Paul Robeson tribute album, which turns out is actually just a gift in general. 
> 
> Happy New Year, y’all <3 This is for everyone who’s already commented on chapter 1.

#  **The Hayloft ;**

**or,**

**Tenzing says goodbye**

*******

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Breathe._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Breathe, Tharkay._

_Tenzing._

  
  
  
  
  


Grey, grey, grey: grey morning, grey light, grey smoke. 

_These things are +-- -- - - - - - - - - - - =- - - - - - - - - these -- -= - -- - - - - - - - - - - - -- -= - - - - -_

_\--- - - - - =- - - -- - - - -- -_ fuck, _fuck ---- - - -_

_Tharkay. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

Granby was keeping watch outside, and the dragons were sleeping, and -- and -- -- - - - - - --- - 

\-- - - - - - - -- - - - - - ---- --- - - - - --- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - 

Breathe. Walk. _Walk faster._

\-- --- - - - - -- - -- - - - -- - - - - - - - -- - - - 

He and Will fell in together, picking their way past the partition to the back of the barn, trying to maintain a reasonable pace -- and succeeding, just. 

\-- ---- - - - - ---- - - - - - - - --- ---- - -- -- -- - -- - - ---- -- -- - - - - - - - ---- - -- -- -- -- -- -- 

No, _not_ like _that:_ like this, like this like _this --_

\----- -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

\-- and Laurence’s hand was -- hold. Hold me -- _hold my -- hold my hand._ _Hold me -- harder._

\-- - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Harder. 

\---- - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

\-- - - - - - - - - - - = -- - - 

\--- - -- - - - - - - 

_\--- - - - -- -_

_Harder._

_\- -- - -_

_\-- --_

_\--_

_-_

_-_

_-_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Breathe, Tenzing Tharkay. Breathe._

_\-- - - - +- - - - - -= - - - - - +- - - - - -_

_\- - these things, these things are here, these things are true, oh_ \-- oh, _dear_ Laurence, who was gripping Tharkay’s hand _just_ hard enough -- who always knew _exactly_ what he wanted, and how much he could take. 

Tharkay breathed, steady and even, and did not weep. 

He had to drop Laurence’s hand to climb up to the hayloft, but it was all right, because Laurence was just behind him _\-- you will be there, guarding my back --_

\-- he was not weeping, he _would not weep -- ------_ no. _No, no, no --_

Tharkay dammed up his tears; he held them back -- 

\-- - - _yes_ \- - =- - - - -+ - - - - ----| - -- - - no, _no_ \-- 

\-- - - - - =- -- -- _climb, just climb, just breathe, just climb_ \- - - - - -- ---- - - -- 

\-- the wind was rising -- = - - - - =-- - - - - - - +- - - -

\-- - =- - - - - - = _\-- - -- - - no -- - - no, please - - - - - PLEASE ---_

_\-- - - - - - - stop it, stop it, you can do this, you can -- - ---- - -- - - -- - -_

\-- and then, just as he reached the top of the ladder, Tharkay’s hand failed to grasp the very last rung, and he -- he slid, he _slipped,_ and -- and Laurence caught him by the foot. 

Caught him, and boosted him up: oh, _oh no --_

\-- - - = - - - - - -= - - -- -- - - --= =- - -= - 

\--- - - the swells were cresting --<\- - + - -= - - - - = _no_ \- - -- +-+ -+ - - - - 

\------ -= - - >\- - - - --- - - - - --- Tharkay scrambled into the hay, and --- - - - - - -= - - - - 

\---- -=-- - - =- - - - - turned around to see _blue:_ Laurence, climbing up --- - - +- - - -

\--- =-- - - - ohh yes, Will was coming to him, oh, _oh_ \-- - -- - - + - - - - | -- - - - - - = - - - - 

\-- - -- -| - - - - - - - - -= - -- --- ---- - _oh,_ those eyes, those lovely _eyes,_ Laurence was --- -< \- - - - 

\--- - |- - - - + - - - - Laurence was looking at him with ---- _no -----_ no, _yes,_ with _love in his eyes --_

\----- - - - “Tenz --” -- - = ---- --- --= - - - - - -- -< \- - -- and -- and -- and -- 

Tharkay broke.

\----> \- - -= - - +- -| -||| - - - - ,- - ,- - ,- -< \- >\- - - -> \- - - - 

\- - - =- - - - - - - =- - - - -\ - - - -= - - - -| - - - - - -[ - - - - - -

The tears spilled over, and -- -- something guttural was issuing from his chest -- “Aaaaaaaauu-uuunnnngggggkkhhhhh--” 

\--- - - - =- - - - - <\- - - - - -< \- - - }- -- - - - …………..- - - - 

\- - =- - - -| =- - - - - - =-|| - - - - - - - ==- -- -,,- -|- ...- - - - - -” - - |-|-- 

\-- he was reaching blindly for Laurence, weeping, _sobbing --_ but it was all right, it was _all right,_ because Laurence had fallen into his arms, Laurence was weeping too -- Laurence’s hands, _so_ warm, so very _warm_ \-- were pulling at his collar, sliding around his back, seeking skin -- 

\--- - - - |- - - -| -- - - - | - - - - - - -- 

\--- - - - - -= - - - -- -= - - - - |- - - - - -| - - - - -| -- - - | ---=- - -- - 

\-- - | - - - | - - - | | --- | | | - - |- || - |- - - - 

\-- - | - - =

“Tenz-nnnnggggaaaa-hhaa-aahhhh…” 

\-- - |- <\- - ...- -> -| - - 

\--- - - - | - - - =- - |- - - - - - +- - - -| - - - - - - - - +- - - - - 

\---- - -= -+ - |- - + -== - |||- - - - - -|- - - - - -= - - - - |- - +- - - - - -

\-- “you -- you didn’t --” Tharkay managed, and could not finish the sentence, could not catch his _breath_ … 

_\---- - - - -+ - -| - -== - - - - - - - < \- - - - - you didn’t doubt me, not once - - - - - -> \- - - _

_“Never.”_ Laurence shuddered. “You -- never, _nev--_ ” Another wrenching sob -- 

\-- Laurence’s tears were falling into his hair, Laurence’s hands were warm upon him, _oh - - - - - -_

 _\- - - -| - -- - - - =- -- -_ it hurt like the re-breaking of his fingers - - 

\- - + - - - <\- - - -| - knowing _this,_ and not just _knowing_ it, but -- 

\-- - -~- - -> \- - - ==- - -{ - - . -- --| - - but _believing_ it for the first time in -- - -| - -+ - =-

\- | | \ | + - - - ||- - -- ||||| - - knowing himself -- recognizing; _knowing himself,_ knowing himself to be l-| -- - 

\- - --+ ---- - - - |- - - -- | 0--- | --| ------+ | =- -- - - - twenty years, nearly _twenty years --_

Tharkay’s whole body was wracked with it: great hiccoughing heaves, like a child; but it was all right, it was _all right_ because -- because Laurence’s arms were around him; Laurence’s hands were on his skin; Laurence would not let him shake himself apart -- he _knew_ that Laurence would not let him shake himself apart -- 

They clutched at each other, curled in the hay -- tighter, tighter; oh, he could not get _close enough_ \-- _please, oh please, just this, just this --_ Tharkay slid his hands between Laurence’s shirt-buttons: slipping it open, seeking that heartbeat, and finding it he pressed his face to Laurence’s skin and let the wave take -- 

\-- _oh dearest, oh beloved_ \-- 

_\-- oh --_

He could not stop crying, and he didn’t want to try. “He says they will all call me _George,”_ Tenzing sobbed. “I don’t _want_ to be George.” 

“What have I told you?” said his aji. 

He shrugged, and rubbed at his eyes with a fist. “Ionno.” 

“‘Look from the front, look from behind: look at your face by yourself,’” she said. “It doesn’t matter what they call you, do you hear me? You will _never_ be what they say you are, my baby; so don’t you mind what they say anyhow. 

_“You_ know who you are, my child, my brightest star: you are _mine._ You will always be yourself, and I will always love you for yourself -- as yourself: exactly the way you are, simply because you are _you.”_

His mouth quivered. “That sounds funny.” 

“Yes,” said his aji. “Love is funny, sometimes. They cannot choose your name, Tenzing: only _you_ can do that. And no matter what you name yourself, my baby, I will always name you _mine,_ do you understand?” 

“Yes, Aji.” 

“Oh, my treasured child; my blessing; my bravest, dearest heart.” She wiped his face with the end of her saree. “Only those who love us may name us, only those we love in return; and those who love us truly and well find their own way to our names, dear one, or don’t you remember?” 

“Yes, Aji.” He hiccuped. “I remember the story.” 

“Shall we tell it again together, my baby? The story of how you named me?” 

“We were making ready for Indra Jatra, with the masks and the offerings,” said Tenzing, voice quavering. “And you were painting my face, and dressing me in silk and gold.” 

“And why was I dressing you in silk and gold?” 

“Because I am God’s presence: an incarnation of Mother Durga,” chanted Tenzing obediently. “Because I contain her spark within me.” 

“That’s right,” said his aji. “And just when I thought I couldn’t possibly love you more, you looked up at me with your bright eyes -- and spoke your very first word. Do you know what you said, dear one?” 

He rolled his eyes. _“Aji.”_

“Exactly right!” She clapped his hands together. “You didn’t call me by the name my aji gave me, but you named me all the same. I named you, my Tenzing, and then you named me _aji_ \-- you _named_ me! 

“How can I ever leave you? or you me, hmm? You are treasured, you are cherished, you are precious, my darling child -- 

  
  


\-- oh, _so_ precious to me -- 

  
  


\-- - - - - - - - just when I thought ----- - - - - - - -- - - -- - 

  
  


\--- - - - =- -- - - - - - I couldn’t possibly love you more --- - - -= - - - - - - =- - - - - 

  
  


\--- ==-- -= - - - - - - - - -+ - - - - no matter what you name yourself - - - =- - - - - - - - - - =+- - - - 

  
  


\-- - - - - |- - - - - - =-+ - - - - - - - only those we love -- - |- - - -= - - - - - - - - 

  
  


-=---- - - -| - - - - - - --- - - - - you _named_ me --- - -- =- - - -+ - - - - - |- - - - 

  
  


\----+- - - - - -| - - - - - -= - - - - - - - - those who love us truly -- =- - - +- - - - 

  
  


\----- - |- - - - - =- - - |--- - -= - - always name you _mine_ \--- - -- - - -= - - - - ||- - - - - - 

  
  


\--=---- - - - =- - - - - - - - =- - - find their own way to our --- - -= - - - - --- - =- - - - - - =- - - - - 

  
  


\-- - -= -| - + - | = | - + -| - -+ =- -| - how can I ever leave you? ---= - -+ |- =-- - -how can I ever leave you? - |- - -= -+ 

  
  


\-- - can I ever leave you? - |- =- - - leave you -+- leave you -- -= - |- - =- - leave you? 

\---| -+ =- - --+ - - - - |--- -- --|| = - -= -= |=- - -=-=-+ -=|| ---- --|-= -=

=|= =----= = =+-=- = |-- =- = |- == = = =|-- =-=

-=-|= =-=|-=|| = | -==--- = -+= =-= 

\--=||=+=|-|=+|-=- -||- =|+=

_Breathe._

  
  
  
  
  


Tharkay spoke into the silence around them a very long while later, one ear still pressed to Laurence’s chest. “I don’t suppose,” he began -- but Laurence was already reaching for his hand. 

_Dearest. Beloved._

“William Always Has a Hanky Handy Laurence,” Tharkay said, and propped himself on an elbow to blow his nose. “No man has ever valued me above his pride, before.” 

“Tenzing…” Laurence had been finger-combing his hair, having worked the braid loose at some point; now Tharkay felt that gentle-rough hand move to his face, smoothing a thumb over his cheekbone, wiping at the tears there. “Cassandra, Ithaca -- _Brizo,_ Tenzing _\--_ Tenz--”

“Stop it, don’t -- don’t you start again,” Tharkay cautioned, voice wobbling _\-- you already had my name, when I gave it --_

Oh, those eyes, like the sea and sky -- “I’m _not.”_ He was. _“You_ are. Tenzing, _Tenzing.”_

Tharkay felt Laurence’s eyes upon him: drawing him in, swallowing him into their depths -- seeing him, _seeing_ him and _naming_ him, yes; naming him and _loving him_ \-- and yes, oh, yes, he knew what he would do next, and did not stop himself.

He brought his own hand to Laurence’s face in turn, yes; and then Tharkay tilted his head forward, _just_ the _slightest_ bit; and -- and leaned in -- 

सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल ! 

\-- and kissed Laurence square on the mouth. 

\-- _oh_ \-- 

Tears and gunpowder, salt and smoke: the smells of pain, of war. 

\-- oh, _this --_

There was pain in this, too, but Tharkay did not _care:_ he was past caring, past trying to mitigate the damage -- Laurence’s lips were parting, inviting him in further; Laurence was pulling him closer; Laurence was kissing him back --

\-- _ohhh_ \-- 

\--- - - - - - - - Tharkay was weeping again, for Laurence was weeping; Laurence was weeping and shaking and Tharkay was shaking and weeping and kissing Laurence’s lovely, lovely mouth, over and over -- 

Stars _above,_ he could not get enough -- the taste was neither bitter nor sweet, no; it was _salt:_ as essential as water, as air. 

“Will,” he said between kisses. They were sobbing and laughing, clutching at one another and gasping and kissing and trembling and weeping… 

“Tenzing.” Fuck, just like that, just like _this --_

“Will.” Oh please, yes, oh _please,_ just this, just _this…_ this taste, this feeling, this _love…_ he gasped. _“Will.”_

“Tenzing,”-- _you are precious to me --_ “Thetis, Athena,” -- _I will break this world --_ “Tenzing: Calliope, Cassandra,” _\-- I will shake empires down to their foundations --_ “my soul, my truth, my compass,” -- _you are treasured, you are cherished --_ “Tenzing.” -- _I will keep you safe, I swear it_ \-- oh _yes,_ oh please, just this, just _this…_ “Tenzing. _Tenzing.”_

  
  
  
  
  
  


Eventually they had to separate, wiping faces slippery with saliva and tears and snot, each smiling ruefully as their eyes met over their sleeves, the handkerchief having long been saturated. 

Laurence reached out a hand. Tharkay went to him, placed his head on Laurence’s chest once more: warm skin, steady heartbeat. Laurence’s arm was secure around him; Laurence’s fingers were woven with his; and Tenzing Tharkay knew himself _loved:_ yes, truly and well. 

It wasn’t -- wasn’t _fair,_ wasn’t _right,_ that they had to -- that just at the moment when -- that Laurence had, and then -- and they hadn’t even -- it was not affection, no, it was not infatuation, it was not the simple cathection of years spent as bedfellows and comrades but love, _love,_ it was _love,_ undeniable, unfathomable, fierce and raging like mountains, like rivers: terrifying and true -- and now they’d never -- 

It didn’t matter: the state of things between them just about amounted to a hill of beans, in the end. Tharkay would do this, he _could_ do this, he must _do_ this. He would say goodbye, and then they would end the war, together. 

\-- _I swear it:_ _I give you my oath, my promise --_

And -- well, it didn’t matter what happened after that, did it? He would still have been loved. He would still _be_ loved -- he would always be loved, _loved:_ treasured, cherished, precious beyond all measure. 

And -- and surely, _surely_ Laurence knew the current flowed both ways? Flowed between and through them both, as it ever had? 

\-- _I often ask myself that very same question --_

Fuck, Laurence had promised him so many times. _So_ many times, in so many ways and in so many places -- surely he knew already, that the same was true in reverse? 

\-- _you are as likely to be executed as I am --_

No. 

No, that was the avoidance speaking; Tharkay’s ever-present denial and urge to flee. For Laurence had -- Laurence had -- Laurence had written to the Emperor; Laurence had _seen_ him; Laurence had _named him._

Yes, it had to be answered, it _had_ to -- _suppose I must speak to him_ \-- but to do so would shatter them, plain and simple. 

How, then, if they could not speak of it? What token could he give which might be received without -- without forcing Will to confront that which he was not prepared to face, without utterly destroying them both?

沒有差別: _it doesn’t matter._

Now was not the time for all that. No, now was the time for -- they were here, together, _now;_ they -- they were not quite safe, not quite well, but Tharkay slid his foot around Laurence’s ankle all the same, and slowly allowed himself to -- _rest, dear one --_ rest, just for a little while: breathing as one, held close to that beloved heart, nestled together in the hay like dragonets themselves; while outside Granby stood guard over them all in the quiet country morning. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


“Keep this truth, my child, and hold it close to your heart. 

“Remember who you are, remember who _we_ are: we are the keepers of the mountains, the first people of the Valley of the Gods. Though we be driven from our home, the mountains will always be our mothers, our medicine. 

“You carry our spirit within you: the spirit of the high cold winds and peaks of stone, of our temple fires and sacred waters -- the spark of Mother Durga.

“You are powerful, Tenzing; you are strong, and you are _mine._ Remember to whom you belong; remember your name; remember that there will always be someone who loves you like mountains, do you hear me? No matter where you go, I will always love you like mountains. 

“We carry our spark: this is your fire, your truth, Tenzing -- here within you, _always._ We hold it close and secret, we conceal it if we must, but our fire will _never_ be doused, do you hear me? _Never._ Your aji will never stop singing for you, praying for you, cherishing you, _loving_ you. 

“My aji gave me my name, just as I gave you yours, my truth-keeper, my brightest star. And ajis see things truly, don’t we? I am a mighty river, my child, and just as rivers flow to the sea I will never stop flowing to _you._

“Mountains, and rivers -- surely they have mountains and rivers, in Britain?” 

“I think so,” said Tenzing. “Little ones, at least.” 

“See? Like home already,” she said gently. 

Tenzing flung his arms around her. “I don’t want to go to Britain. I don’t want to leave you.” 

“Tenzing, dear one,” said his aji. “It doesn’t matter where we are, understand? I love you like mountains and rivers, my child: never doubt this. Never, never doubt this.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Sometime near sunset, as they were preparing to depart, Tharkay only had to brush past for Laurence to follow. They walked around the corner of the barn, and as Laurence came behind, Tharkay turned and, backing into the wall, pulled him in by the lapels. 

Just once more: just a taste, just a kiss. 

_Oh,_ those lips were soft, _so_ soft… Tharkay slid a hand around to stroke upward through Laurence’s hair: swirling patterns across his scalp, cradling the back of his head; and with her other hand she cupped Laurence’s jaw and _kissed_ him, properly this time -- gently, _so_ gently, caressing, tender… Laurence was kissing her back, Laurence was crowding in closer… 

\-- _f_ _arewell and adieu --_

She pressed her fingertips to Laurence’s pulse. “Mind your head.” 

Laurence shuddered. “Hhhhhhaaaaaaaaannhhhhhh --” 

Making sure to keep one hand between Laurence’s head and the wall, Tharkay swung him around, shoved him up against the barn’s weathered side, and swallowed his next moan. 

_\--_ _for we've received orders to fly for old England --_

Please, _please --_ just this, just _once_ more: just a taste, just a kiss. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


The blades glinted silver. The lamp threw gold. 

_Kkkkkkkkkkkkkrrrrrrrrrrrssssssshhhhhhhhtttttttttt -- snick._

It didn’t matter, not _really._ This was just -- just the latest cut required, and a small one at that when set against the others. Even strung all together they just about amounted to a hill of beans, in the face of his ultimate goal: it was all dust and ashes, in the end. It didn’t matter, no, not _really --_

So why did Tenzing feel as if someone he loved was dying? 

_Snick. Kkkkkkkkkrrrrrrrrsssssshhhhhtttt._

He sat, still and silent as stone in front of the dressing-table; and -- 

_Snick. Snick._

This was but a shallow cut, compared to the rest. 

_Snick._

Blue eyes met black in the mirror, and moved over his face: appraising, assessing, cataloguing. Weighing and measuring. “Fuck or be fucked by whomever you please, that's your business," said his father finally. A hand on the back of his neck, now suddenly so much _colder_ than before… “But understand this, boy: no son of mine will _ever_ be a goddamned fairy.” He threw the braid to the floor. 

Was someone weeping? 

  
  


***

  
  


The sun was sinking low when Laurence and Tharkay walked back around the corner, shoulders just barely brushing. 

Granby’s eyebrows hovered somewhere near his hairline. “If you’re _quite_ ready?” 

“Mademoiselle Lung Tien Ning,” Tharkay called, pitching his voice slightly. “Pray remind me, if you would: who was it foraged our provisions this morning; and took down a squirrel this afternoon, with naught but a stone and a neckcloth for a sling?” 

“Why, Captain Tharkay, that was you, of course.” The hatchling cocked her head, as if wondering why he would ask such a thing, and Granby rolled his eyes. 

Tharkay smirked. “That’s what I thought.” 

  
  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tharkay: omg i got snot on your shirt, i’m so sorry  
> Laurence: do you know how many times i’ve wiped your ass  
> Laurence: because i honestly don’t 
> 
> Q) so Laurence just hits Tharkay right in the daddy issues on like, every possible level, huh?  
> Tharkay: wow, fuck you, that is extremely fucking reductive  
> Tharkay:  
> Tharkay:  
> Tharkay: but not entirely inaccurate
> 
> *** 
> 
> My aji is making black-eyed peas today, and so am I <3


	3. Re-entry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The editing playlist for this one was The Parting Glass (version: Henry Jamison ft. Darlingside), because I cannot be other than what I am, and at this point I’m not even trying to pretend otherwise

#  **Re-entry ;**

**or,**

**Tharkay weighs anchor**

*******

  
  
  
  


“And you must be T--” 

“Tharkay, yes,” he said dully. 

“Come,” said the agent. “Let’s get you to debrief.” 

“Should not Captain Tharkay report to the admiralty with the rest of our party?” asked Laurence. “His intelligence is both essential and unique.” 

“All the more reason for him to report to the ministers direct,” said the agent, and took Tharkay’s elbow. 

Laurence’s hand tightened on his other arm -- oh, Will wasn’t going to let him go, was he? Not without -- 

_\-- but Tama Rereti loved his people more --_

“Laurence.” Those _eyes --_ “沒有辦法: you’ve your duty, and I’ve mine.” _There’s nothing to be done._

“My idea of duty is not yours,” said Laurence, and _\-- I know of no reason why you owe it to any man to die, to no purpose --_ and Tharkay wanted to cry, because for a moment they were standing shoulder to shoulder near dusk, not quite touching, watching grey shadows creep across brown fields beneath an open sky. 

He smiled a small, sad smile. “Honor is sufficient purpose.” 

“Very well.” Laurence’s voice rang like cut crystal. “We shall -- we shall rendez-vous when this is done, and --” 

_If your death would preserve it better than your life --_

“And we’ll go down to the harbor,” Tharkay finished. “Yes.”

“Come,” said the agent again. 

Laurence released his grip; his hand dropped instead to his hip, where Tharkay’s token was tucked securely into his sword-belt. 

沒有, 沒有 -- 沒有辦法. 

Tharkay allowed himself to be led away.

  
  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurence: that’s CAPTAIN Tharkay to you, asshole


	4. Kent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit Different by SZA feat Ty Dolla $ign which, wow, talk about a meta stage name, i love it so much
> 
> Anything that is *set off by asterisks* is copy/pasted directly from canon -- in some cases with minor punctuation tweaks etc

#  **Kent ;**

**or,**

**Laurence talks supply**

*******

  
  
  


*He had written a sheet both sides and crossed it, full of her good advice, and the clock had struck ten; then Jane said, “You may as well stay the night, if you like,” and he was staring at a meaningless scratch of ink, his mouth gone abruptly dry with want.*

And then -- well. Laurence had not _shed_ his decorum, his control, no -- 

He had _lost_ it. 

And -- and now -- 

*She caught both her hands into his hair and bent forward to lean her forehead against his, smiling in the small, secret dark place between them, and* -- _you,_ _just you, as yourself, just like this --_ *he shuddered suddenly and completely, despite all the will in the world to hold off. 

He groaned in apology. “Graceless as a boy,” he said, rueful, when he had his breath back again, and he tumbled her over onto her back to better use his hands to bring her. “I hope you will pardon me,” he said, when she had sighed at last. 

She laughed and kissed him. “I don’t leave for Spain until tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “You can make me a better showing in the morning,” and then, practical, rolled up and went to wash.*

Laurence rocked backward onto his heels -- it hurt, it _hurt;_ his head was reeling as if she’d quite literally _slapped_ him -- 

\-- oh, oh _fuck,_ here it came | || like rain | | | |like | 

|| | \ | | | \\\ | | | | || | | | | | | | | | || | | || | | 

“No wonder you’ve done so poorly on your studies, if this is how you spend your time. You’ve the brains of Apollo, boy, but that you continually choose to put them to women’s work is not supportable; my son shall grow up to be no man’s illiterate selkie, understand? 

“The least you can do, if you insist on running away to become a sailor, is _try_ to be an educated one. I will expect marked improvement upon my next examination; for I don’t leave for Spain until tomorrow afternoon,” said his father. “You can make me a better showing in the morning.”

And -- and -- _spin | || | | | | | | spin | spin | sickflipspin --_ ||| | | | | | oh, fuck, he was _so_ disoriented, but -- | _here, | here, Turkish rug, | fireplace, | maps | and ledgers, you | are here._

| One | two | three, four, five. _Breathe._

_Breathe, Will._

Laurence tucked himself back into his trousers, feeling suddenly very small, or pathetic, or -- or _exposed,_ somehow: his shoulders were beginning to hunch with shame, without his really knowing why. 

But -- but it hurt… it _hurt,_ for -- for in that vulnerable moment -- in that twilight after-time when words slipped straight from heart to mouth -- when he had apologized for himself not once but _thrice,_ Jane had laughed… _laughed,_ and either had not heard or had chosen to ignore what he had _really_ been asking, or saying, or apologizing for… 

_\-- graceless as a boy --_

What _had_ he been apologizing for? 

For losing control, he supposed. For coming to crisis before seeing to her pleasure, for being so caught up in his own feeling that he -- that he forgot himself, that he dropped his shields completely, for -- for she’d _smiled,_ into that secret dark place, and -- _warmth, close and dark --_ and he’d felt… safe. 

He’d felt _safe,_ yes, and it had felt so _good:_ that was the sole reason why, despite his will to maintain hold of himself, he’d _lost_ it completely. He’d _failed_ to maintain control, and -- and that -- 

\-- _I hope you will pardon me --_

\-- _that_ was what he’d been apologizing for: feeling good, feeling _safe,_ and showing it without having given himself permission to do so… and Jane had made a jest about it. 

\-- _you can make me a better showing in the morning --_

No. No, she had not been jesting, not _really_ \-- 

\-- _make me a better showing --_

That casual _dismissal,_ the way she’d _belittled_ and _mocked_ his innermost feelings, the… the _assumption_ inherent there -- he felt _ashamed_ of it, of having felt good, and -- and it _\--_

***

“He said I had a brain like Apollo,” he sobbed. “But when I showed him how I made the pattern, how it made an _equation,_ he just -- just -- just got so _angry,_ and said that weaving was _women’s work._ Who _cares_ if it’s women’s work?” It came out as a wail. “I _made_ it for him!” 

“Darling Will,” said his mother. “You know your father means well.”

“But it _hurts,”_ cried Will. “Doesn’t he _care?”_

“He does, darling, of course he does, but…” she sighed. “Every Hermes has his Iris; every Apollo his Diana; and yet we keep their spheres entirely separate and contained: your father cannot help but want you to be only Apollo.” 

He lifted his eyes to her face. “What do _you_ want me to be, mama?” 

“Oh, my dear child, beloved of my heart,” said his mother. “I want you to be whatever _you_ want you to be.” 

***

\-- it _hurt._

It was not fair, Laurence _knew_ it was not fair, but he could not help it -- it was rising to the surface, the thought of a petulant child, tossed ashore like so much driftwood --

 _Tenzing_ would never have said that. 

Tenzing would have… would have kissed his temple, probably, and said something like _there is no shame in feeling good…_ Tenzing would have said _you, just as yourself, you are enough._

No -- a smile crept across Laurence’s face, then, an unexpected guest: Tenzing would have said none of that; Tenzing had never had any patience for Laurence's knee-jerk pardon-begging -- those expressions of self-inflicted shame. No, Tenzing would have raised one of those owlish eyebrows and said _I demand you retract your apology immediately, my sailor; else I’m afraid we must away to the nearest ship…_

The smile faded. 

Because it was entirely unreasonable to think of Jane and Tenzing in the same vein; entirely unreasonable for Laurence expect the same care from his lovers which he received from his fellows: they were wholly separate relations, and | the one did | not | diminish the | other… 

| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | 

Something seemed not quite right, about that thought. Well, and of course it did: he and Jane could not properly be called lovers; he would never | presume | so far on the basis of | this singular night’s encounter… 

But there was something not quite right about _that_ thought, either; for even the last time they had been together, when he’d -- when he’d proposed, and she’d, she’d laughed then, too... 

*It had been late summer, an August night hot enough that they had left off the coverlet and lain naked together with the windows open, a devil’s bargain between the London stench and the stifling heat. The next night he had betrayed her, and his country, and flown with Temeraire to take the cure to France. 

He had not touched her since. Nor any other woman. Not from loyalty—loyalty a word he had no right to use with her—but a deadening of some inward vital part, necessary to desire. They had spoken together; he had even been alone with her. But the door had been closed. He had not conceived that it might ever again open* -- _I would wager against her ever giving you another opportunity to damage her reputation, even so --_

And of course, if he had been asked but moments ago, Laurence would have asserted with confidence that the ways in which he and Tenzing brought one another solace could not rightly be said to be born of desire. Comfort and empathy, yes; philia, certainly so -- _between men who have faced battle together --_ but not _desire,_ surely. 

But having now felt what he could positively identify as desire for Jane, Laurence recognized it as a distant echo of the deluge which had flooded his entire being, that night in Vyazma. 

\-- _you may undress me --_

If _this_ had been desire, then that -- _that_ surely could have been nothing but -- but raw eros: pulling him under, sweeping him out to sea. 

_An angle theta of thirty degrees delivers the sixth part of pi when measured in the round. An angle theta of sixty degrees delivers the the third part of pi in the round. An angle theta of forty-five degrees --_

Jane’s forgiveness was a boon unlooked-for, a grace unasked. Her regard meant much and more to him, and to know himself a little redeemed in her eyes was a balm; yes, this was all true, and yet… 

The act itself they had discharged with the -- efficiency, one might call it, of two lovers of long familiarity; no less joyful for all that -- and when he had finished tending to her, he had -- had _reached out,_ had said _I hope you will pardon me…_ and she had dismissed him, and rolled away from him on the rug, and gone to wash. 

And now she was coming back, and extending her hand to him, and -- and well, Laurence supposed it was in fact time to get up off the rug, so he took it; and let her help him stand. *They went upstairs carrying their boots, hand-in-hand, and left them in a heap in the corner of her bedroom.

She pillowed herself comfortably against the headboard and lit a cigar, and blew a long, satisfied plume of smoke. He refused the one she offered him, lying flat on his back beside her and contemplating the canopy without seeing it, his mind already catching on the hooks and burrs of planning, the immensity of the problem suddenly laid across his shoulders.* 

It seemed to him sometimes that his life had been nothing but war, fathomless war to no _end,_ no purpose at all. And he had thought that she, at least -- well. 

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, it all felt _wrong,_ and he could not for the life of him figure out -- the surroundings were wrong, the bedding felt wrong; the smoke from Jane’s cigar even _smelled_ wrong… 

But no. No, there was nothing wrong with this, not as such -- Jane had never been anything less than perfectly clear with him; if this felt wrong to him it was because -- because it had not been what he expected, what he had _assumed_ it to be; and having gone in with those certain expectations he had thought himself safe, left himself vulnerable. Open to -- not disappointment, no. 

This shattering, breathless pain -- the _pity_ in her eyes when he had taken her hand, when she had said _why, Laurence --_ when she'd kissed him and _laughed_ _\--_ it felt as if she had shot him at point-blank range, and he ought to know. 

And hadn’t Tenzing _warned_ him, about this very thing? 

_\-- you do not always consider the entire context --_

It -- it _felt_ different, between Jane and Tenzing, it _did;_ and Laurence could not for the life of him say precisely why. For of _course_ the two of them were different: in sex, certainly; but also in character, and temperament, and a thousand other ways besides. 

But it was _more_ than that; he -- _he_ felt different, somehow, when he and Tenzing offered one another relief, than he had just now with Jane, even before she had -- 

\-- _I hope you will pardon me --_

He and Tenzing had only ever sought to -- sought to _give,_ to one another -- but he had _wanted_ something from Jane: her forgiveness, his redemption; and she… she had wanted _\-- well._

She had wanted him to bed her well. 

_\-- you can make me a better showing in the morning --_

Correction: she _yet_ _expected_ him to bed her well. 

That was all she sought from him; all she _wanted_ of him, beyond an able and competent commander at her back. 

\-- _your years in the Navy serve you well, with matters concerning the command of men; and yet --_

 _Oh --_ there it was, it -- there, there it was… 

Laurence closed his eyes against the lamplight, suddenly now bright to the point of blinding him -- _oh --_ for he had realized -- or remembered? -- or finally understood: it was not that he and Jane were no longer lovers; it was that they _never had been._ Even years ago, when they had seen each other regularly, it had been... enjoyable, yes, but there had never been any deeper feeling between them. He did not share with Jane the currents of his heart; Jane had never _wanted_ his heart, had in fact never shared _her_ deeper feelings with him: nothing beyond the highest degree of camaraderie and -- and fellowship -- 

\-- Jane had never called him Will, not once. 

\-- _you can make me a better showing in the morning --_

Oh. Oh, it _hurt._

And it was worse because she _was not wrong,_ no; _he_ had been wrong, to think that -- because she had _told_ him, over and over and over again, and he had not _listened_ properly; he had not _listened_ properly because -- 

\-- _particularly when it comes to matters involving women --_

\-- because of his own _stupidity._ Because he’d been so -- so utterly wrapped up in his own ways of seeing that -- that he’d refused to take her seriously as his commanding officer, because he’d insisted upon seeing her as a woman, but -- but she was _both;_ that was the -- the -- oh, _ohhhhh,_ this was the very same gap which had led him to write the letter which had humiliated her so, which had -- oh, he’d been so very, _very_ stupid. 

Laurence wanted to run very far away and never speak to anyone again, least of all Jane; or else perhaps rend his clothing and throw himself at her feet, but -- 

_\-- do not burden me with your absolution on that score --_

\-- but it was not her responsibility to forgive him for the long-held gaps in his thinking; Tenzing had taught him that much. Tenzing, _Tenzing --_ who had told him all this from the beginning, who had pointed the way to truth, over and over and over -- who himself had borne the brunt of the many gaps in Laurence’s thinking time and again -- _because of you, because of your failings --_ yes, because of his failures, because of -- because of -- 

_\-- the fault was never with you --_

\-- because of more _lies._

“Jane.” His eyes snapped open. “Are we bedfellows?” 

She broke off in the middle of a sentence about one of the formation-officers, and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Dear, _sweet_ Laurence,” she said, leaning over to look deep into his eyes. “We shall always be the greatest of friends.” 

Laurence nodded -- it was no more than he had suspected -- and Jane continued speaking of the war as if she had not been interrupted. 

And now here was another gap, another lie he’d been told: that women were delicate, gentle creatures; and wholly separate from himself. That they could be nothing to him but wives or lovers, and they resided in Britain, and relations between them took place in beds; whereas men were fellows, and _their_ relations took place in bedrolls or berths, and never in Britain. The one did not diminish the other; no, but the distinction was absolute to the point of exclusion. It had always been that way, and Laurence had never questioned it. 

But Jane was a woman, and they had been together in a bed in Britain, and Jane was most certainly not his lover; neither was she particularly delicate, no, nor gentle. And if that were possible… 

Something was coming, some -- ozone, the smell of a storm, closer now: a change in the wind. With a sailor’s instinct Laurence sprang into action, preparing himself for whatever lay ahead… gathered his mind and tied it it down tight while the swells grew -- _oh,_ his head _ached…_ and | here it was: | the deluge… | | | |

|| | | | | | | | | | | || | | || | | 

| | | | | | | | || \ | | | | || \ \ | | || 

|| | | | | | | | | | | | | | \ \ | | | | | | | | } | }{ 

He _wanted_ a lover. He _wanted_ to feel safe, to feel _good_ about feeling good. He wanted a breath which matched his; and tender things whispered in the dark; and someone who would stay with him until his heartbeat slowed, rather than rolling away. He wanted someone who might -- who might keep his heart in trust -- someone who would _hold_ him, someone with whom he might _allow_ himself to be held; someone who _knew_ him, and valued him for himself… 

\-- _if I may cut your Gordian knot --_

...oh. 

_Oh._

But -- but Tenzing was -- Tenzing was a _man._

 _A prince among men,_ his mind whispered. _A truth, a blade, a goddess of a man._

And oh, _oh,_ he felt it, he _felt it,_ and -- and the feeling now welling up in his core could be named nothing other than -- other than -- 

\-- _come, Achilles --_

***

“Means ‘unconditional love,’ between them,” said Lord Bennington. “Like the way your mother loves you, or the way you and I love the sea.” A hand, ruffling his hair. 

“Grandda?” said Will, whose finger was tracing the figures on the page: two men standing hand-in-hand, facing wine-dark waves. “I agape you.” 

“Why, my little sailor.” His grandfather’s voice sounded thick. “You honor me; I agape you, too.” 

***

“Are you even _listening?”_

Lights popping -- sickening, shrieking pain -- _spin and sick and flip and spin --_ the canopy lurched: now, in the present, Jane had flicked his temple in an attempt to gain his attention. 

\-- _mind your HEAD, Will --_

He caught her wrist as she made to do it again. _“Don’t --”_

Clenching his teeth against a heaving stomach, Laurence barely noticed as Jane tugged her arm from his grip. _Breathe, breathe, breathe like the waves --_ the lights were blazing, whirling colors -- he rolled away: don’t touch me, don’t _touch me --_ felt his feet hit the floor, felt his -- 

_\-- feet over knees over hips over | ankles over shoulders | head over shoulders, head, head, mind your head --_

Table | table ||| || edge of the table, here is the table, here is the ||| \|| || | | chair, here, the chair ||| || c h air 

\-- and falling into it Laurence | squeezed his eyes shut | and lay his head upon folded arms. | \| | _Breathe._ | \ \ | _Breathe. B r e a t h e_. . . 

|| || || | ||| | | |||| || | \\\

“I’m going to wrap you in swaddling clothes and top it all with a steel helm, see if I don’t,” Tenzing snapped. “If I’m feeling generous I may even give you a visor, though that remains to be seen.” 

“But then you’d never see my face,” said Will, feeling rather foolish. 

“Your face isn’t nearly as lovely to me as what’s behind it, my sailor, Adonis though you be,” said Tenzing crisply. “Just -- mind your _head,_ Will, for God’s sake: you’re the only helmsman you’ve got.” 

||| |\\\ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | \ \ \ | | || | | | 

| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | \\\ \ | | | | | | 

| | | | || | | | \\\\\ | | | | 

| ||| | | | | | | | 

“Laurence.” Jane’s voice was quiet now, as if in apology herself. “Laurence, dear fellow, whatever is the matter?” 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, raising his head from his arms. “I am afraid…” ...and could not think of a way to finish the sentence. 

Her eyes softened. “You’re like a little lost lamb without him, aren’t you.” He flinched. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot, you don’t talk about awkward things,” said Jane. “But come now, there’s no need for these pretensions between us, is there.” 

“I…” 

\-- _have no further patience for polite demurrals from you, William Laurence --_

 _Want him. Love him. Agape…_ “I miss him,” Laurence said at last, his voice hoarse. 

“Well, of course you do,” said Jane, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Laurence -- have you given any thought to what you will do, after the war?” 

“After the war.” What? “Will there be an after?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” said Jane emphatically, and stood; and began to pace, and talk of strategy and supply. 

Agape. _Agape._ Love, _love,_ love like -- like -- 

_Like Patroclus and Achilles._

And there might be an after. 

No, there would be an after, there _would,_ and -- perhaps they might -- well, of course they _couldn’t,_ but there were -- there were perhaps _ways_ \--? 

For when Laurence permitted himself to contemplate the possibility, once it had made itself known to him… oh, he wanted it. He _wanted_ it, so much, and of course it -- it might even one day come true; for they would all come home to Britain, certainly, and -- _I am sure dear Ambrose merely found it an irresistible opportunity to be rid of me --_ and -- 

\-- and Tenzing would not be safe, in Britain. 

Oh, _ohhhhhh._

Oh. 

_This_ was what had been behind that sadness in his eyes, when they had parted. _We’ll go down to the harbor --_ but of course they wouldn’t; they would never run away to the sea together; they _couldn’t:_ they would not be themselves if they did -- 

\-- _honor is sufficient purpose --_

\-- and suddenly, abruptly, Laurence found himself very, very angry; and very, very grateful that it was Jane sitting across from him in this moment -- _dear_ Jane, with her exasperation for his _histrionics,_ as she called them; and not -- not Tenzing, sitting here, with that terrible _sadness,_ and compassion, and -- _understanding._

Tenzing had seen this. Of course he had: Cassandra, Brizo. And Laurence was angry: angry at himself, for not having seen it sooner. Because -- because if he had -- well. He hadn’t; and there were very good reasons he hadn’t; and he perhaps would not even have reached this same conclusion anyway, at an earlier time, without Jane’s catalyst. 

Because his conclusion, when it finally came, was this: he did not give a fig for what the Empire decreed. Not a rat’s turd, not a single fleck of spittle, not one whit. 

\-- _why do they not go home to England and marry the bedfellows? --_

Anger, and sorrow, at himself: for not having made matters clear between them before they parted: a few desperate kisses behind enemy lines did not a promise make; and yet he _wanted_ to make Tenzing promises, every single one. 

They could not _marry,_ certainly, but they could -- they could _be_ together, they could make a _home_ together, the three of them, and -- and the boys, perhaps, if they desired to stay, and -- and oh, _oh,_ he wanted it, yes, he would fight for it, if necessary; but -- but he knew only his own heart. Did Tenzing feel the same? Did he want it, too? 

_\-- it doesn’t matter where we are --_

The piece of him Laurence had been given: black like a crow’s wing and silver like spun starlight, plaited and coiled and tucked into the compartment behind his compass, the one meant for -- _never doubt this --_

The one meant for a lover’s token. The one into which he had placed the lock of Tenzing’s hair without thinking twice. 

Had he really been _that_ stupid, all this time? That insensible to the currents of his heart? 

\-- _the fault was never with you --_

No. No, this was the inevitable result of following others’ maps: just another thing he’d never questioned. Another lie he’d been told, another lie he’d _believed._

Oh, Tenzing. _Tenzing._

Because his token -- it was the kind meant for a long separation. But that could not be, it _could not be:_ they would stay _together,_ they _must,_ but… 

How might he do it? How might Laurence make it clear -- make things known, between them; how might he make Tharkay the promise of an after? 

_Like Patroclus and Achilles._ But Patroclus had not survived the war; Patroclus had not survived the war because -- because Achilles had refused to fight. 

Patroclus had died because Achilles had left him alone, left him to fend for himself. 

That smile; that beautiful, terrible, starlit smile… 

_No._

Laurence's hand fell to a sheet of paper. 

“Those aren’t supply calculations,” said Jane after a while. “Laurence, what are you doing?” When he did not immediately answer, she came around to look over his shoulder. “Oh, not another of your _letters,_ Laurence.”

It cut. 

“I shall not deny that I have well earned both your wrath and disdain,” he said quietly. “But, Jane, I… I do not know how else --” he broke off, and covered his face with a hand for a moment -- _God,_ he was dizzy. _Breathe. Breathe, like this, like the waves, breathe._ He dropped his hands and raised his eyes to face her. “Will you read it?” 

She looked at him for a long moment, then took the other seat and put out a hand. “Give it here, then.” 

\-- _do not grovel; demonstrate growth --_

The fire crackled. Laurence breathed. The smoke from Jane’s cigar curled around her face. 

“This is good,” she said at last. “You’ve grown smarter.” 

“I have tried to learn from past errors in judgment.” He would not ask her forgiveness again -- _do not burden me with your absolution --_ but he could demonstrate growth. 

“Clever of you, to imply that he enjoys the same protection from Temeraire as you.” He did not bother to correct her. “And to use your other title, to boot. A man they’ve had doing their dirty work for a decade and more? They’d likely oblige you by hanging him for a sodomite; and thank you for the evidence, had you not reminded them what’s at stake.” 

“I do not like to affect the trappings of status I have not earned,” Laurence said quietly. “And yet I find that I am not above sacrificing my pride, for his sake.” The other part of what Jane had said clunked into place. “And why does it seem,” he grumbled, “that I am always the last one to know things?” 

“Well, dear fellow,” said Jane, very matter-of-fact. “Most of the time you are. And doesn’t the Emperor of China call you ‘brother’ now? What’s that line, about how the blood of the battlefield is --” 

“-- thicker than the water of the womb, yes,” said Laurence. “But I don’t see how that applies in this instance.” 

“That’s because you’re rather foolish, for a genius. Now here,” and reaching for a blank sheet of paper, she scribbled a scant few lines. “Add Her Grace Admiral Jane Roland to the pile, and perhaps you’ve got a chance.” 

“Jane.” Laurence’s heart was in his mouth. 

“Oh, _do_ come off it, you arrogant sod.” She rolled her eyes. “You are not the only one who owes him debts which can never be repaid.” 

“Jane,” said Laurence. _“Jane.”_

“Laurence,” said Jane very, very patiently. “Where do we send these?” 

He swallowed his heart. “Yours goes direct to his lawyers. Mine must travel a different route.” 

“Address the envelope for me, there’s a good fellow,” said Jane. “Do you have a strategy, then, for how you’re going to feed all these stray light-weights and middle-weights you plan to adopt into your fleet? The Corps will only give you…” but he was no longer listening, not particularly, no. 

*Laurence was silent. He had learned enough of dragon-supply, he hoped, to make material improvements over the traditional standards of the Corps. He could not be fully confident of success, and he was wary of letting his force outstrip their means, but* -- but that long absent friend was back: an idea was beginning to form. He had an _idea --_ an idea, and a reason to fight. And more -- for the first time in a long, long while, he had… hope. 

Jane cut herself off. “Laurence,” she said abruptly, staring hard at what she must perceive as undue optimism in his expression. “I feel I must warn you: you haven’t been in Britain for years. Things are… changing, here. It grows more dangerous for men like you by the day.” Her eyes challenged him: _men like you._

\-- _a steadfast bond indeed --_ Laurence raised an eyebrow. “There are no men like us.” 

***

“Help me with this, spider-fingers.” 

“Tenzing.” He kissed him behind the ear, down his neck, he pressed his face into his hair as he worked. He could not -- he could not _breathe,_ he could not _think,_ he could say nothing but -- “Cassandra, Athena -- Ithaca, Tenzing.” Names, _his_ names: their private names for each other, their _names…_ “Calliope, Iris, Tenzing, Tenzing.” 

“Jason, Diana,” said Tenzing. “Arachne, Odysseus, Apollo. Watch, or --” 

“Compass,” said Laurence, and felt hands working at his belt even as his fingers reached the end of the plait. “Nike. Brizo. Compass. _Tenzing.”_

Laurence worked at the tiny silver catch. Tenzing sawed at the braid with his belt-knife. 

And when it was done -- 

“Never doubt this.” Tharkay’s voice was fierce. “It doesn’t matter where we are, understand?” Another kiss, soft like starlight and hard like driving rain upon their hands, clasped together around the compass, the compass which now contained -- “Never, never doubt this.” 

Laurence kissed their fingers in his turn. “And one day, when there’s world enough and time, we’ll go down to the harbor,” he promised. “And take to the sea.” 

That smile was -- was sad, _so_ sad, so fond and so _sad_ … “Come, Achilles; we cannot make our sun stand still.” Tharkay dropped his hands. “So let us make him run.” 

  
  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurence: but if you’re --  
> Laurence: and he’s…  
> Laurence: then whomst --?  
> Laurence:  
> Laurence:  
> Laurence:  
> Laurence: WAIT 
> 
> Laurence: *existential crisis*  
> Laurence: *ego death*  
> Laurence: *queer awakening???*  
> Jane: bruh can you do that on your own time  
> Jane: like there is quite literally a war on 
> 
> Q) wait, was that a pity fuck?  
> Jane:  
> Jane: i mean  
> Jane: what do you want me to say 
> 
> #sometimes Admiral Roland’s brusque affection is exactly what you need #and sometimes it’s exactly what you DON’T need #and never the twain shall meet 
> 
> The poem Our Men keep quoting at each other (‘the world enough and time’ bits from Sydney & Fontainebleau) is Andrew Marvell’s To His Coy Mistress, which was published in 1681.
> 
> Friends, I am here to process, meet me in the commentssss
> 
> <3


	5. [UNDISCLOSED]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s the evening of January 6, 2021, and I really needed this today - hope it helps some of y’all cope with this shit, too 
> 
> Speaking of Paul Robeson: Joe Hill, live from 1952. 
> 
> (I also highly recommend the Leon Bibb & Eric Bibb version from that tribute album in the Hayloft. ‘Tis a lovely story -- but also and however, nobody can compare to the man himself.) 
> 
> *things set off by asterisks* are copy/pasted directly from canon, with minor formatting/punctuation changes

#  **[UNDISCLOSED] ;**

**or,**

**a nomination**

*******

  
  
  
  


One year almost to the day after his capture at the hands of General Fela’s faction, Tenzing Tharkay dragged himself out of the Thames, filthy and shivering; and staggered to a run under a waning moon. 

He was, he hoped, in the process of narrowly surviving his debrief and subsequent discharge from His Majesty’s intelligence service; though he was out of ideas, and if this gambit had not lost them -- _don’t. Don’t think about -- don’t._

 _沒有辦法:_ _there’s nothing to be done for it; just… run. Just survive._

Beyond that, he had nothing; he had not exactly _planned_ to return from France, had he? So in point of fact he had _no plan at all,_ apart from bare survival -- and even that didn’t seem to be working out so well. 

Footsteps, purposeful and swift -- 

_Fuck._

If this were Istanbul or Samarkand -- or Kolkata, even -- he might stand a chance; but this was London; it was _Britain;_ and he had neither tunnels nor hidey-holes: no contacts, no _community…_

_沒有差別: it doesn’t matter._

_Just run._

A volley of gunshots -- he ducked -- the hackles on the back of his neck rose: he was being _hunted --_ the footsteps were gaining on him -- another gunshot, closer, _much_ closer, _too_ close -- hunted like _prey --_

The street went dark for a moment, and -- _nothing is impossible, not even survival_ _\--_ Tharkay used the brief cover to throw himself sideways to the ground just as -- _survive, just survive --_ another shot whizzed past his ear, and -- _沒有什麼不可能: just survive_ \-- 

\-- a gust of cold wind -- 

沒有什麼不可能... 

\-- silence. 

A shadow in the sky: growing smaller, now a speck. 

_Thud._

“Hey, squirmy!” Enormous teeth, and sharp hot breath. “How the fuck are you?” 

  
  


***

  
  


A litany, a chorus, ringing from the mountains:

**_Whose wings bear the Offering before us?_ **

  
  


***

  
  


“Hop on; ya’ShikaaRi’ashayantlxሄ will meet us back with the others,” said Arkady, and grabbed Tharkay around the waist. “These days we just get a couple wingbeats away and give ‘em a spin; turns out crawlers are heaps more reasonable when you’re not killing ‘em willy-nilly -- ha! who knew? -- but don’t you fret, ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ. They won’t fuck with you again.” He bared his teeth. “Ever.” 

  
  


***

  
  


“Arkady tlkᵜilniyoutt°Gherni,” bellowed the very pirate himself, “taᵜNkaatrrr°llሄtch°Karakoram!” 

The trees shook with roars. 

  
  


***

  
  


Time slid sideways. 

Tharkay kept to Gherni’s hours; that is, waking only to eat, shit, and sing to the new clutches. 

“Hey Loudsqueaky, what’s your favorite color?” 

And field inane questions. “Mmmmmmmmmffffkkkkymmmmslep’ng.” 

“Wait, do we even _see_ the same colors?” 

“Fuck you,” said Tharkay, more clearly this time. “I’m sleeping.” 

“But how would we _know,_ is the thing; I mean, ‘snot like we can trade places -- no, seriously, Troutcreeky, I’m asking.” A beat. “Hey, do you think _fish_ see the same colors we do?” 

“Gnrrrrrgh,” said Tharkay. 

  
  


***

  
  


**_Who is Offered, beneath patterned stars?_ **

  
  


***

“D’you think the eggs smell it when we break wind?” 

“Fuck you, I’m --” Huh. “‘Snot like they’re breathing in there, are they? So no.” 

“Y’know what, that’s good thought, Spoutleaky. Hey, what’s that other name of yours, again?” 

“Captain Fuck You I’m Sleeping Tharkay, at your service.” 

“What’s the first song you ever learned?” and “What did you sing to Temeraire’s _egg?”_ and “Give us a verse, squirmy, c’mon,” elicited three distinct improvised tunes, though they were admittedly variations on a theme -- 

“Fuuuuuuuck yooooooou, I’m sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeepingggggggggggg.” 

But when he was asked about -- 

“No, dummy, not your egg- _makers.”_ Arkady was staring as if very, very disappointed; Tharkay was yet too exhausted to care. And then -- ever with that _tone,_ as if to a particularly stupid sheep _\-- aaa’AArRRRRrrrRrrcq --_ Arkady sang the rhyme: 

_Who kept whole your shell, that you might sing azgrakh?  
_ _Whose voice spun your thoughts toward truth?  
_ _Ya’rcq”ilnaaRtk, ya’rcq”ilnaaRtk, ya’rcq”ilnaaRtk_

_Whose breath blew your spark to flame,  
_ _And drew you into the world with love?  
_ _Ya’rcq”ilnaaRtk, ya’rcq”ilnaanoukxh, ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ_

“So answer the question, Captain Snarky Soundsleepy, and I’ll let you pass out again,” he finished. “Who was your egg- _singer?”_

“Oh,” said Tharkay. “Oh, her name was --” 

  
  


***

  
  


“-- Tenzing Lumanti tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi!” Arkady roared, and stones rattled the valley floor. 

***

  
  


“Are any of them yours?” asked Tharkay, and Gherni snorted. 

“I wish,” said Arkady. “Naw, ya’ShikaaRi’ashayantlxሄ says if I want another egg I have to carry it myself, and there’s been too much crosswind to make the switch, of late,” A wing-shrug. “Maybe soon, though, once things’ve calmed down a bit.” 

“‘Make the switch?’” echoed Tharkay faintly, just to make certain he’d heard correctly. 

“Well, yeah, it’s only fair, y’know,” said Arkady. “Egg-carrying takes a lot outta a body, and Wringe did the last two. But the change takes it outta you, too, and we’re kinda busy these days, if you hadn’t noticed.” 

“I see,” said Tharkay, and asked no further questions. 

  
  


***

**_Who will claim the Offered,  
_** **_And extend the wings of their line thereby?_ **

  
  


***

  
  


“Who made the fire?” asked Tharkay, rubbing her eyes. “Haven’t sold me out to the crawlers, have you?” 

“Don’t you fret, ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ, ‘twas your lightning-strike of a little one,” said Arkady casually. “What’d you sing that _egg,_ squeaky?” 

It took a moment, but -- “My _baby_ was here?” he wailed. “And nobody _told_ me?” 

“‘Fuck yooooooooooooou,’” warbled Wringe. “‘I’m sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeping.’” 

_“Fuck_ you.” He pulled Gherni’s wing over his head. “I’m going back to sleep.” 

  
  


***

  
  


“Gherni tlkᵜilniyoutt°Siv tlᵜrcq”ilniyaanuˀRRooushxxll°Kxhaa,” sang Gherni, and there was a minor rockslide, somewhere. 

“Kxhaa tlkᵜilniyoutt°GhAzt tlᵜrcq”ilniyaanuˀRRooushxxll°QrouykA,” sang one of the pack-members, holding up the pendant for all to see; and the sky trembled. 

And then -- _opalescent wings, marigold petals, sandalwood breeze --_

The earth _quaked._

  
  


***

  
  


“But of _course_ I had to come, ma; I’m your only other line-elder for a thousand miles!” 

“I find, aunty,” said Tharkay faintly, “that I must humbly beg your most gracious pardon.” 

“We share Rrrethixi,” said Falak. “Or didn’t you know? Perhaps you didn’t.” 

That clarified nothing. “I beg your _pardon?”_

“And really, you learned so many of our songs; I thought it only natural to return the favor -- Aalo’s line honoring Siddhu’s, and all that.” 

“I _beg_ your _pardon?”_

Falak turned to Gherni. “You haven’t prepared her at _all,_ have you, line-sister.” 

A wing-shrug. “We’re improvisers, didi. Have been since ሄtch.” 

“Well.” Falak sniffed. “Please tell me you’ve at least got someone soft-fingered coming to help her dress; I won’t have my offering torn to ribbons by you lot.” 

“Offering, aunty, why is there an _offering?”_ said Tharkay, who was beginning to hyperventilate. The clues were beginning to point toward -- toward _Tharkay herself_ somehow being the so-called offering, and that did _not_ bode well, not at all. “And why do I need help getting dressed?” 

Gherni said nothing, only looked up; a large shadow had crossed overhead and was rapidly growing in size. 

_THUD._

“All here and counted, ya’rcq”ilnaanoukxh,” said Arkady. “Well, not _here_ here, obviously, but they’re here, and ain’t nobody dead yet. Don’t like each other much, do they?” 

“I beg your pardon,” said Tharkay. _“Who’s_ here?” 

Arkady rolled his eyes. “Everybody.” He turned, and lifted a wing, and -- 

“Greetings, comrade,” said Gong Su. “I come bearing options.” 

“What the --” Were they going to have Gong Su _stew_ him, then? 

“Ah, you’ll do nicely,” said Falak. 

“Did you bring ours?” asked Gherni. “And mine?” 

“Of course, ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ,” said Gong Su. “And a few others’ besides; as I said, we have options. Several, actually.” 

“Will somebody _please_ tell me what the devil is going on,” said Tharkay -- very calmly, he thought, for someone about be turned into a sacrificial lamb. “And why it feels as if I am playing a role for which I have been given no sides.” 

“Don’t you worry about a thing, ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ -- all _you_ gotta do is stand still, look pretty, and sing when spoken to,” said Arkady, as if that were somehow comforting. “What kind of Host would I be if I made you arrange your own Naming?” 

  
  


*** 

  
  


“Don’t you fret, ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ,” said Arkady in what passed for a whisper -- and _oh,_ Tharkay was beginning to hate that phrase. “We warned the squeakies below _days_ ago. They were happy enough to plug their ears, once we greased ‘em up right.” 

  
  


***

  
  


“Well, you need not wear it all at once,” said Gong Su, ever the pragmatic one. Arrayed were -- before them, there were -- clothes, _his_ clothes; or something like, anyway -- but he’d never seen -- and certainly _that_ was -- 

\-- what _was_ that? 

“I am told the ceremonies are twofold: the Naming and the Receiving; with a very great revel and feast to follow, of course,” he continued. “Let us therefore separate those articles which would be appropriate to each, and then we may see where we stand.” 

What. _What._

“This, as you know, is from Temeraire.” He held up Tharkay’s flying-coat. _“These_ come compliments of General Chu.” 

It was -- it _was?_ \-- it _was_ a set of Newa clothes: a black wool tapalan and matching suruwa trousers -- _there is darkness beneath the butter lamp --_ stitched with tiny geometric patterns in bright colors; thick and soft and oh-so-warm -- _though it brings light to distant places --_ with a red-bordered white shawl; and a red cap to match. 

Tharkay couldn’t speak. He _couldn’t._

“And your line-elder --” 

“Ffffffffaaaaa-halakji.” A valiant croak. 

“Falakji has gifted you this.” 

It was -- _look from the front --_ it was _another set of clothes -- look from behind --_ rich, heavy black silk, trimmed in gold and red: it was a _saree._ Falakji had gifted Lumanti a saree of her very own, in the colors of _her own people -- look at your face by yourself --_

Oh. _Ohhhhhhhhh…_ Tharkay wanted it, he _wanted_ it -- he wanted to feel _beautiful_ for this, wanted to _be_ beautiful, for this, but… 

“Well, and of course it is entirely inappropriate,” he murmured, stealing a wary glance at Gong Su’s face. It was one thing to go as his feminine self in those parts of the world where the practice was common -- or among the pack, for that matter: they seemed to have as fluid and porous a border between the sexes as the one inside himself -- but it was quite another to be seen as Lumanti by any humans who knew Tenzing; and it was _certainly_ not safe to do so in Britain. 

A shame, because the material was so lovely _,_ flowing like a river across his forearms; and she had never had the chance to attire herself in her _own_ tradition, not properly… 

“I think I had better present mine own offering, before you make a decision,” said Gong Su. 

  
  


***

  
  


“This is my nyapu shikha, and this here my tayo mala,” said his aji. “My aji gave them to me when I was -- oh, when I was very young; younger than you are now, certainly. I wore them on my wedding day.”

“I -- remember these.” His Newari was halting. “You sewed them inside my तपालं.” _Inside my tapalan._

“That’s right,” said his aji. “You carried our things, and I carried you; and soon enough these things will be yours.” Her voice was placid. “As well as my prayer-books, and the altar-figures besides.” 

“Mine? But -- but Aji,” said Tenzing, realizing what she meant -- _no, you can’t die, you can’t, I just got here --_

She placed a warm hand on the back of his neck. “Of course, dear one: who else should inherit my gold but my greatest treasure?” 

  
  


***

  
  


It was a -- a hair ornament, and it -- oh, it was _just the same_ as the one locked away in iron and stone beneath Istanbul: an upturned crescent moon, and -- one, two, three, four, five strands, connected by wefts: looking like nothing so much as a jeweled wedge spun from a cobweb of gold. 

Tharkay stared.

“You are not the only one who observes, comrade.” Gong Su’s voice was gentle. “You flow through the world like water: whether ice or steam, you are always yourself.” 

Ohhhhhhhh. _Oh._ Was that her heart melting? Or else condensing, or -- or turning to mist -- “I, I cannot --” 

“It would be very rude indeed, if you failed to honor a gift from your line-elder,” Gong Su pointed out. “Or me, for that matter.” 

“The -- the petticoat and blouse are not, erm, fit to measure,” she managed weakly. Oh, but she wanted it, she _wanted_ it… 

“That won’t be a problem,” said Gong Su. 

_That_ startled Tharkay from her reverie. “What the _fuck,”_ she grumbled. “Can _everybody_ sew but me?” 

“Apparently so, comrade.” 

“Aaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuu _uuuuuuugggggggghhhhhhhhhhh.”_ She threw up her hands. “I cannot _stand_ you, _comrade.”_ _Dearest_ Gong Su. 

“Be that as it may,” he said mildly. “We turn now to your other adornments.” 

  
  


***

  
  


**_Whose shell have they kept unto azgrakh?_ **

“I am Wringe tlkᵜilniyoutt°Gherni,” said Wringe. “Caesar tlᵜrcq°Wringe’kan’Arkady tlkᵜilniyoutt°Tharkay has acquired a human who will bring them security, riches, and acclaim. Tharkay Cloudspeaky, we are satisfied.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Apparently most of the jewelry was from the pack: _her_ pack, it seemed, for it resembled a _dowry_ of sorts, as far as she could tell; or else a trousseau, or else a bequeathing? an inheritance? an adoption? 

From the pack-members at large came rings for every finger; and gold bangles, set with all manner of gemstones, and -- in addition to all this -- there were also further gifts from her _Principals?_ and what the _fuck?_

The first, from Wringe, was a gold tikka set with an enormous uncut tourmaline, which shifted from pink to green to blue-black and back when tilted in the light; ringed in a sunburst pattern by tiny rubies and seed pearls exactly matched in size. 

From Arkady, a set of gold earrings dripping with emeralds and sapphires -- and more blue-black tourmalines besides -- and rubies which sparkled like pomegranate seeds. 

From Kxhaa -- _Kxhaa._ Kxhaa? Yes, Kxhaa had sent a -- a line… blessing? _\--_ a _line-blessing:_ a long pendant, with a carved Durga figure the size of his little finger. 

“At least _this_ is something approaching reasonable, in carnelian and jade,” he muttered. 

“Look again, comrade,” said Gong Su. 

“What the fuck,” said Tharkay. 

But even _that_ was not the biggest shock; from Gherni -- from Gherni -- 

“Obviously you must don the lot for the ceremonies; though I imagine you may remove a portion come time for the subsequent revelry and feast.” 

“Stop it,” said Tharkay. “Stop teasing. This isn’t mine, this isn’t for me, this _can’t_ be for me. Are those _diamonds?”_

“Well, _that’s_ no diamond,” said Gong Su, very matter-of-fact indeed. And it wasn’t: the center stone was a faceted sapphire roughly the size and color of a duck egg -- or else a field of lavender -- or else smoke? Ahhh, so it was another color-shifter; and it was set in gold, surrounded by -- by -- oh, those _were_ uncut diamonds polished to smooth brilliance, sliding in their settings against one another like scales. Among them winked more yabby-egg sapphires and sea-foam emeralds and pomegranate rubies; and the edges of the thing fair _frothed_ with pearls. “But yes, the necklace is for you: your name-blessing, from Gherni.”

“That’s no _necklace,”_ said Tharkay, parroting his tone. “That’s a -- a -- a collar, a harness. A _yoke._ A whole yoke made of _diamonds and pearls._ That’s not mine, I can’t wear that, I can’t even _touch_ it.” 

“Please correct me if I have misunderstood,” said Gong Su. “Is the title in question not an immense responsibility bestowed, by a consensus of esteemed peers and elders, only upon those who have completed decades of apprenticeship and study; and demonstrated an unparalleled commitment to nurturing future generations?” 

Difficult to argue. “...yes.” 

“Then a diamond yoke seems appropriate, no?” 

“Well… well, _yes,_ but -- but _no,_ because, you see -- but, but -- is this how other people feel, talking to me?” she demanded finally. “Do I do this, this, this tricky little -- _manipulation,_ into the receiving of praise?” 

“As a matter of fact, comrade,” said Gong Su. “I learned it from your example.” 

“What the _fuck,”_ said Tharkay. 

“And finally,” Gong Su opened the last box. “These, we will need to return,” he said quietly. “But I thought you might like them for the occasion nonetheless.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Red silk, green jade, bright gold. “I’ve never been able to wear these; I am pleased they will finally be put to good use.” 

“It’s your lucky day indeed, Arachne,” sighed Tharkay. Laurence’s hands felt so lovely, and they were _so very_ warm: they flowed across his scalp like honey on the comb. “You shall have to plait them in for me; I certainly can’t manage it.” 

“I relish the honor, though I mourn the circumstances.” _Dearest._ “How do I do this?” 

“Start by actually combing, for one thing.” _But don’t ever stop touching me, please._

Laurence cut his eyes in the mirror. “Thank you for the instruction.” 

“And after you’ve finished with that, mmmmm.” The comb felt good, _so_ good, and Laurence’s fingers were carding through his hair with _reverence…_ “Well, this one should be rather simple for you, dear fellow,” Tharkay drawled. “Especially as we do not have time to shave the tonsure; I shall have to tilt the hat forward, I suppose. At least the plume will be distracting enough.”

  
  


***

  
  


“So I’ll be a proper maicha at sunset o baucha by midnight, is that it?” 

“And all that either may encompass, as the evening progresses. Seems fitting, no?” 

Tharkay huffed. “I suppose.” Nothing made any kind of sense anymore, so why not? 

“One last thing,” said Gong Su. “This is for us, right now, from me.” He brought out a leather pouch, and opened it to reveal -- 

“Marry me, comrade.” She fell to her knees to clutch at Gong Su’s robes. “Please.” 

“Absolutely fucking not,” he said. “You have clearly lost all sense of reason, for one thing.” 

“Reason?!” Tharkay swooned sideways to lay down full upon the grass, and sang her next words: “Reason says I should have died _years_ ago.” She giggled. _Giggled --_ perhaps her mind _had_ cracked, after all. “Load us a bowl, at least?”

“That much, I will readily oblige,” said Gong Su. 

  
  


***

  
  


**_Whose thoughts have they spun toward truth?_ **

“I am Arbitus, sung of none, kept by Empire,” said one of the Yellow Reapers in careful Durzagh. “Tharunka tlᵜrcq°Reapers tlkᵜilniyoutt°Cloudspeaky occupies a position as one among many: supported, interwoven, never lonely.” Apparently Tharunka had too many egg-makers to name each individually. “Captain Tharkay Cloudspeaky, we are well pleased.” 

  
  


***

  
  


“He tried to take Temeraire to his bankers.” Gong Su was bent over Tharkay’s hands. “Apparently *Drummonds’ and Hoare’s balked entirely; they refused to do anything but put the money into an account in his name.”*

Tharkay laughed himself silly. 

“Hold _still,_ ma,” admonished Falak. “The mehndi won’t turn out if you don’t let him do it properly.” 

“My apologies, aunty-ji. He is, without a doubt,” said Tharkay, turning back to Gong Su, “the most foolish genius -- or else the most ingenious fool; I’ve never quite decided.” 

“I know that’s right,” said Gong Su. 

“Remind me to send you back with a letter of introduction to the Rothschilds,” said Tharkay. “That should serve you in good stead; provided you route it through my lawyers, of course.” 

“Whitehall won’t hear a whisper,” said Gong Su. “Now hold _still,_ comrade.” 

***

  
  


**_Whose spark have they nurtured to flame?_ **

“I am Augusta, sung of none, harnessed by Empire,” said a Copper Regal. “Kulingile tlᵜrcq°Augusta’ka’Flavius tlkᵜilniyoutt°Captain Tharkay chose a captain who kept him sane and well through his Helplessness, when the Empire would have snuffed his life for lack of _utility.”_ Boos and hisses. “Captain Tharkay Cloudspeaky, we honor your name.” 

Another chorus of roars. 

  
  


***

  
  


“This isn’t right.” Tharkay was tucked beneath Gherni’s wing, cuddled in close like a babydoll; her voice barely reached above a whisper. 

“Hm?” 

“Why are you doing all this, for me? I -- it’s not -- I don’t, I don’t deserve this,” she managed. “Any of it.” 

“Oh, my apprentice,” rumbled Gherni. “Heartsung child, of _course_ you deserve this; all of it and more. You are ours, and we are your pack, and --” her wing fluttered a little, and she squeezed his calf with her tail. “-- and surely you know we love you, aaaaa’AArrrrrRRrrrrRRRRrrrrrcq.” 

  
  


***

**_Whom has their love drawn into the world?_ **

“Lung Tien Ning tlᵜrcq°Iskierka’ka’Temeraire Lung Tien Xiang,” said Gong Su, and had to pause, for the ground was shaking with roars. “Lung Tien Ning tlᵜrcq°Iksierka’ka’Temeraire Lung Tien Xiang tlkᵜilniyoutt°Tharkay is of singular intellect, ferocious character, and truest heart,” said Gong Su. “Captain Tharkay Cloudsp --” 

“I can speak for myself,” said Lung Tien Ning, and spat flaming thunder into the sky. 

The mountains might have shattered, for all Tharkay cared: nobody had told her that her _baby_ would be here -- 

And then Gherni began to croon: 

_You kept whole our shell, that we might sing azgrakh  
_ _Your voice spun our thoughts toward truth  
_ _Ya’rcq”ilnaaRtk, ya’rcq”ilnaaRtk, ya’rcq”ilnaaRtk_

 _Your breath nourished our spark to flame  
_ _You drew us into the world with love  
_ _Ya’rcq”ilnaaRtk, ya’rcq”ilnaanoukxh, ya’rcq”ilnaantlx_ ሄ

 _Tenzing Lumanti tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi,  
_ _uˀrcq”ilniyaan Rtk”oorrRRssshhhhxxlluˀ  
_ _Tharkay Cloudspeaky tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi  
_ _uˀrcq”ilniyaan Rtk”oorrRRssshhhhxxlluˀ  
_ _Tenzing Lumanti tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi,  
_ _uˀrcq”ilniyaan Rtk”oorrRRssshhhhxxlluˀ  
_ _Rtk”oorrRRssshhhhxxlluˀTharkay Cloudspeaky,  
_ _tlᵜrcq”ilnaanoukxh, tlᵜ’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ_

A wave, a hailstorm, a _typhoon_ of cheers shook the valley, and then -- 

“Bipeds and flyers,” roared Arkady. “Dragons and dragonets, I give you --” and the two line-elders present joined in to sing: 

_Tharkay Cloudspeaky tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi  
_ _tlᵜrcq”ilniyaanuˀRRooushxxll°Gherni  
_ _tlᵜRRooushxxll°Kxhaa  
_ _tlᵜRRooushxxll°QrouykA  
_ _tlᵜRRooushxxll°rrrrrrrrrnyki  
_ _tlᵜRRooushxxll°ሄtch_

\-- and then the other pack-members, one by one -- 

**_tlᵜRRooushxxll°Lloakxh  
_** **_tlᵜRRooushxxll°Zighqta  
_ ** **_tlᵜRRooushxxll°Tlikiii  
_ ** **_tlᵜRRooushxxll°OkkRo  
_ ** **_tlᵜRRooushxxll°Hmaada_ **

\-- and then the trees and the mountains joined in, it seemed, and the ocean just beyond -- 

**_tlᵜRRooushxxll°Ikthyoi  
_** **_tlᵜRRooushxxll°Torሄu  
_ ** **_tlᵜRRooushxxll°Qtli  
_ ** **_tlᵜRRooushxxll°Siddhu  
_ **

####  **_tlᵜRRooushxxll°Rrrethixi_ ** **_  
_****_tlᵜRRooushxxll°ShhllkAu  
_** ** _tlᵜRRooushxxll°VasRlneva  
_** ** _tlᵜRRooushxxll°Kሄushh  
_**

##  **_tlᵜRRooushxxll°Nhuja  
_** ** _tlᵜRRooushxxll°Indusu  
_** ** _tlᵜRRooushxxll°Kaali_**

#  **_tlᵜRRooushxxll°Durga  
_** ** _tlᵜRRooushxxll°Durga  
_** ** _tlᵜRRooushxxll°Durga!_**

Everything had dissolved into -- into -- light, and sound, and blurs -- everything inside of him was melting; her entire being was sublimating, or -- or vaporizing: rising into mist and rainbow and light, flowing up into the air -- nothing left inside except -- 

“Az-grakh!” Arkady had begun to chant. “Az-grakh! Az-grakh!” 

Tears. Nothing but tears, surely smearing her eye paint. This was, this -- it was, there could be nothing but -- nothing but -- 

**“Az-grakh! Az-grakh! Az-grakh! Az-grakh! Az-grakh!”** roared the mountains. 

\-- _sing when spoken to --_

Oh, _ohhhhhhh --_ it was _Tharkay’s turn_ now, it was _\-- we’re improvisers, didi --_ but there was nothing but _tears_ \-- she was a being made entirely of truth, of sky, of _loving praise_ \-- 

\-- _what’s the first song you ever learned? --_

\-- she was a vessel empty of all but humility and gratitude, welling up like a fountain inside _\--_

_\-- breathe. Like this, like the waves. Breathe._

Slowly, slowly, she began to stamp his feet in rhythm, with their heavy ankle-bells; and he clapped her golden-ringed hands to accompany; and beneath patterned stars, every last one of Tenzing Lumanti tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi’s selves opened their mouth to sing -- 

  
  


***

  
  


“It is a song my aji taught me, when I was younger than you.” Her eyes were soft and bright. “Would you like to learn the words?” 

Tenzing grinned. “I already know them, Aji! You sing it _all the time.”_

“Oh, you _do,_ do you?” She raised an eyebrow. “Sing it for me, then.” 

  
  


***

  
  


And when Tharkay was done, the line-elders and the pack -- and the stones of the valley floor and the mountains above -- sang their answer:

**_Tenzing Lumanti tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi,  
_** **_uˀrcq”ilniyaan Rtk”nkxhrrRRssshhhhxxlluˀ  
_ ** **_Rtk”nkxhrrRRssshhhhxxlluˀTharkay Cloudspeaky,  
_ ** **_tlᵜrcq”ilnaanoukxh, tlᵜ’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ  
_ ** **_Tenzing Lumanti tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi  
_ ** **_Tharkay Cloudspeaky, tlᵜrcq”ilnaanoukxh:_ **

**_LounaaRtk”nkxhilniii  
_** **_LounaaRtk”nkxhilniii  
_ ** **_LounaaRtk”nkxhilniii_ **

And then they -- they -- 

  
  


***

  
  


“It is a song my aji taught me, when I was younger than you,” he said. “Would you like to learn it?” 

Sipho’s smile blazed like the sun. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


The Receiving, when the assembly finally adjourned to the bonfire, was a rather drawn-out affair. Mostly it consisted of what seemed like all of the featherweight dragons in Britain surrounding Tharkay to dissect the azgrakh with question after question: rapid-fire like Arkady, only much, _much_ harder to answer; for while they had all retained the words to sing back to him, his azgrakh-song had been in a tongue unknown to any of the assembled egg-singers, even Falakji. 

After that it was for Tharkay to sit pretty with her line-elders and Principals, and -- 

“Can’t I take these off, yet? Only it’s all getting a bit heavy.” 

“Nope.” Well, and he’d never argue with Wringe: he settled herself in to be on display a little while longer. 

“Don’t you worry, ya’rcq”ilnaanoukxh, these aren’t for you,” said Arkady -- that _phrase_ again -- “They’re line-gifts, for the fosters. Really they’re giving ‘em to Gherni, but we couldn’t do the swap until we had a spare. Can you imagine?” He shuddered. “No singer, and someone _else’s_ eggs?” 

Arkady continued to keep a running commentary as, one by one, representatives from each of the -- _singer-lines,_ was the phrase, and he had better get to know the terminology fast -- each of the singer-lines native to the isles came forward to present their party with two eggs, and the accompanying line-gift. 

“Damona honors Durga.” 

“Excellent. Excellent start. Well, they’re a lሄxooR bunch, we knew that. Never had a _torc,_ before; d’you think it’ll fit Wringe?” 

“We of Eostre give blessings to the continuation of Durga’s line.” 

“Solid second, solid second, mm-hmm…” 

“Gwydion bids Durga welcome.” 

“Oooooohhhhh, that’s good, holly’s good protection, and see that root ball? Old growth, for sure. We’ll plant that right at the song-cave entrance, and make no mistake.” 

“Cyrridven honors Durga’s line.” 

“Ha, of course Cyrridven’s going right after Gwydion, those two always have to show each other up. Useful as all get-out, though: you never don’t need something to carry your stuff in, and now we can make those _stews_ of yours, too; is this _awen_ they’re talking about one of them?” 

“Ruad Rhofessa welcomes Durga to our lands.”

“Whoa, never seen a dragon-instrument with _strings,_ wonder what they used to make ‘em -- hey, d’you think it’s taller than you? Go over there and stand next to it, ya’rcq”ilnaanoukxh.” 

“The Cailleachan welcome you among us, Durga-cousin.” 

“Fucking shit, that walrus had to be the size of _Temeraire._ Hey, lots of room for stories!” 

“On behalf of the draconic citizen-subjects of the British Crown,” said Perscitia, coming forward in her turn, and upended an entire chest of gold and jewels. 

“Nice,” trilled Arkady, and glided over to have a closer look. “Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice.” 

“Seems my line-sister did well enough.” Falak was sitting on Tharkay’s left side. 

“Gherni has ever been a stern teacher,” said Tharkay, inclining her head to the right in indication. 

“Her, too,” said Falak. “But your Singer was the first to nurture your spark, line-daughter; and it is she whose name I praise, though I knew her not.” 

“Right, okay, some of ‘em are for you; but you can go change after this, promise,” called Arkady as a second wave of representatives came forward, and -- 

“Ruad Rhofessa honors Khusi’s song,” said a dragon with vowels like a rainstorm; and dropped a golden harp at Tharkay’s feet. 

“Tharkay Cloudspeaky,” said the next, who rivaled Falakji for size. “The Cailleachan praise Khusi’s name.” A flute, carved from walrus ivory.

“Eostre honors Khusi.” A hand drum. 

“Damona calls Khusi sister.” Another torc, this one sized for human use. 

“Your azgrakh brought riddles to your line, Cloudspeaky.” An old holly bush for his very own. “Gwydion salutes Khusi’s cleverness.” 

“Khusi’s name will be known to Cyrridven.” A book, a _book,_ they had given him a _book,_ and in a new tongue besides -- 

  
  
  


***

  
  


It made no sense -- _no_ sense, absolutely none: not a lick, not a whit. 

Two words in English, and _one_ in Quechua, and -- 

Tharkay looked at the great mass of colored thread in his lap, intricately knotted and coiled -- ludicrous. Utterly and completely _ludicrous._ It _made no sense._

“Excellent,” he said, and got to work. 

  
  


***

  
  


“They have named you ya’rcq”ilnaanoukxh, comrade,” said Gong Su sometime near sunrise. “I should be honored to name you friend.” 

“The honor is entirely mine, a chara,” said Tharkay, and passed him the pipe. 

  
  


***

  
  


**_I shall perform arati before the venerable Ghana. Day and night I shall invoke the name of Dasabala._ **

**_I shall do worship with grains of unbroken rice, sandalwood powder, flowers, incense, rasa, and lamps._ **

**_I shall play the cymbals, the mrdanga and the dholaka, and, along with the damaru and other musical instruments, I shall blow the conch._ **

**_Know the year by joining mountain, ocean, and jewel. Folding my hands again and again, I shall say my prayer._ **

  
  


***

  
  


A gust of wind, and -- 

_THUD._

“Rise and shine, Malarkey Loudsqueaky,” sang Arkady, _far_ too cheerfully. “Hope you had a good rest, ‘cause now we’ve got a sheepload of work to do.” 

  
  
  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tharkay: guessilldie.png  
> Arkady: the FUCK you will 
> 
> Gong Su: lol you ain’t slick to ME  
> Gong Su: anyway let’s get stoned 
> 
> Tharkay: wait there’s a DEFENSE??? 
> 
> Falakji: somebody raised you right, kid  
> Tharkay: *single tear* 
> 
> Q) does Durzagh have gender pronouns?  
> nb***: not as such, no 
> 
> Q) lol, is that a retcon?  
> nb***: definitely not, nope *handwave* no need to do a continuity check, these aren’t the droids you’re looking for
> 
> Q) also and additionally and furthermore: seems like Durzagh has some Vulcan loan words, no?  
> nb***: aa’AAAAaarrRRRrrcq 
> 
> ***
> 
> Lienhard, Siegfried (1992). Songs of Nepal: An Anthology of Newar Folksongs and Hymns. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidas. ISBN 81-208-0963-7. ← (same book from before, different edition and publisher: y’all, I cannot be other than what I am, and I am bound by blood and oath to cite my sources with fanatic zeal, so)
> 
> Photo references for things described herein (all this is Instagram):
> 
> @sabyasachijewelry  
> @the.newars, @welcome_to_bhaktapur  
> @__coyotl__ ← I’ve been debating how to do this. There are a bunch of people I follow who are actually, you know, part of the cultural group depicted who have shaped my headcanon for Tharkay. But many of them are just… regular people whose profiles I stumbled across while in a social media rabbit hole from the references above, and I’m not super comfortable sharing those publicly? Because that’s not what these people intend them for? 
> 
> Anyway, all this to say that the profile given above is the *public figure* who most closely resembles my Tenzing Tharkay (plus like 15% @archanaakilkumar). 
> 
> Also, for your consideration : 
> 
> Tharkay - Capricorn sun, Gemini moon, Aquarius rising  
> Laurence - Pisces sun, Scorpio moon, Virgo rising (Venus in Scorpio, downchart includes Taurus & Aries)  
> Temeraire - Leo sun, Aquarius moon, Cancer rising 
> 
> Thoughts?
> 
> PS Iskierka is Leos all the way down, naturally
> 
> <3


	6. The Grand Tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Django Jane by Janelle Monae, although Odetta’s version Masters of War will likely add to your experience. 
> 
> Per usual everything mentioned herein is, y’know, actual factual history canon, though recontextualized for the narrative. 
> 
> There’s one *asterisked portion that ended up being like three full pages flat copy/pasted out of League of Dragons, because honestly all fit just TOOOOOOO WELLLLLL* and i’m not sorry

#  **The Grand Tour ;**

**or,**

**Cloudspeaky gets to work**

*******

  
  
  
  


_Come, you masters of war; you who charge us to die  
_ _You who raise us to slaughter, and indebt us to fight_

Glowing coals, fanned by wings and breath.

 _You who sell away futures; you who trade on our backs  
_ _There are no further warnings: your time is now past_

***

“Temeraire has assured me that you are up to the task,” said Perscitia. “Are you certain you can make them understand? Only I’ve tried telling ferals things many times before, and they don’t tend to listen very well.” 

“I shall do my best, my lady,” said Tharkay, and bowed. 

“I’ll bring Wellington by -- perhaps in a few weeks? months? -- to go over the districts based on your report,” said Perscitia. 

“The fuck you will,” rumbled Wringe. 

“That wasn’t part of the agreement,” said Arkady. 

“We’ll work something out,” said Gherni. “You understand the charge, Apprentice?” 

“Yes,” said Tharkay. “Twenty seats.” 

“Good,” said Perscitia. “Don’t disappoint me.” 

  
  


***

  
  


_You that never done nothin’ but build to destroy  
_ _You who rip apart families, and violate joy_

Sparks, dancing upward, blown into -- 

_You who glory in bondage and profit from pain  
_ _I shall not rest ‘til I’ve drowned you in flame_

  
  


***

  
  


“Oh, I see,” said Tharkay. “Once you emerge from the shell with your thunderous fire you’re done learning, is that it?” 

“I have the most capable mind of any you’ve met; you said so yourself,” Ning retorted. 

“You want to play this game, heartsung?” said Tharkay. “I sang you into this world; I’ll sing you out of it morning, noon, and night.” 

And not one minute later… 

“It seems you still have something to teach me,” muttered Ning. 

“It seems you still have much to learn,” Tharkay rapped back. 

“Never thought I’d say this, but can we _please_ get back in the air now?” said Arkady. “Only it’s miles to go yet, before we sleep; and I miss Wringe.” 

  
  


***

_You fasten the triggers for the others to fire  
_ _And sit back and watch as the death count gets higher_

The tinder was catching. 

_You murder and butcher; you lie; you deceive;  
_ _You want this war over -- so you’d have us believe_

  
  


***

  
  


“They’ve given him command of the eastern fleet,” said Gong Su. 

“Should the Chinese legions come through, we may actually stand a chance against the tyrant, after all.” They were _doing it,_ they were doing it _right now,_ inshallah --

“You’ve come to our rescue there: His Imperial Majesty assures me our forces will make the overland crossing in record time, thanks to both Arkady’s guidance and the Ottoman acquiescence; though whether even that will be swift enough for our purposes remains to be seen.” 

“You’ve had word _already?”_ Tharkay whistled. “That’s some communications relay.” 

“Temeraire is most pleased with the promotion,” said Gong Su. “But not for the reasons you think.” 

“Do tell,” said Tharkay. 

“Well, he finds himself in need of a captain now he’s got an admiral, naturally,” said Gong Su. “And as you rather conveniently hold the proper rank...” 

Tharkay laughed herself silly. “Naturally.” 

  
  


***

_You choose to ignore the suffering you sow  
_ _While you reap gory riches and gnaw at the bones_

The fire was blazing. 

_If I cut out your eyes, would that make you see  
_ _All the blood on your hands: on your words, and your deeds?_

  
  


***

  
  


“Kxhaa was the one told me you were ready,” said Arkady. “After those fuckers got us in the mountains -- well. Didn’t wanna see no crawlers for a long time, not even you, Cloudspeaky.” They flicked a wing -- after days on on end with none but Arkady for company, Tharkay was beginning even to _dream_ in Durzagh. “But you knew that. It was a good idea, to send me to’em, so -- thanks. You know, for suggesting.” 

Tharkay jerked their chin, and Arkady flicked their other wing. The two of them were curled together around a campfire somewhere near Orkney, if Tharkay was not mistaken; and two eggs were cradled between Arkady’s forearms: the pack’s eggs, for their end of the foster-swap. 

“Anyway, after awhile Kxhaa got to asking about you, and if you’d been Named yet; and I didn’t know what to tell ‘em. I mean, I knew you were ‘prenticing around, but then they told me you’d been studying with Falakji?” Their tail lashed. “ _Damn,_ Cowsteaky. I mean, like, _daaaaaaaaamn.”_

“That one didn’t rhyme,” said Tharkay. 

“Fuck you,” said Arkady. “So then your General came to give me your regards, ha, and I showed ‘em how to get to Temeraire _just_ like we did back when, remember? Only they stayed to wait for the rest of their crew; and I came on ahead with the offering from the General and Kxhaa’s line-blessing -- and lucky I did too, ‘cause about two seconds later we saved your ass from those crawly fuckers.” They spat into the fire. “Scum-sucking _naziliim.”_

Tharkay did likewise; they could not help but agree. 

“Anyway, Kxhaa’ll be happy: that was tch’azgrakh’lሄxooR if I ever heard one, squirmy!” Arkady ticked off each point on their claws. “It was a human song in a new tongue, and it rhymed, _and_ it had a numbers riddle!” A trill. “Shoulda known, Mouse-sneaky. Plus, the riddle-game tells everyone about your Principal config -- it’s like you _planned_ it, but of course you didn’t. Ha! You shoulda seen your face! Haaaaaahahahaha!” 

“...config?” The word was unfamiliar. 

“Yeah, you know -- a Singer and their Principals; a Hunter and Host is the most common, like Wringe and me; but there are other ones too, and lots of Singers make up their own, when they found a pack. And hey -- mountain, ocean, jewel -- that’s pretty good: s’clear who’s who, and everyone likes shinies, ‘specially Temeraire.” 

Oh. Well, and wasn’t _that_ just -- fuck. _Fuck._ Tharkay pushed thoughts of Temeraire and Laurence down, pushed them away: 沒有辦法... 

“And it’s only right for you to make yours up, ‘cause it ain’t nobody like you in all the world, ya’rcq”ilnaanoukxh -- plus, between Temeraire and their captain you got one of each, which’ll be good for the muttonh-- ‘scuse, the harnessed dragons, who’re used to giving their eggs to squeakers.” 

沒有辦法. “Do I detect a hint of restraint? Or, dare I say, _courtesy?”_ Tharkay raised an eyebrow. 

“C’mon Housecreaky, stop playing; I’m doing my best. Fuck, once I realized -- fuuuuuuuuuck me, do you know what they _do_ to eggs here?” Arkady shuddered from nose to tail. 

Tharkay waited. The fire crackled. The wind gusted. 

“I mean, ‘snot _their_ fault they’ve got no lሄuuxRoa, poor things: they don’t _know_ no better!” Arkady burst out finally. “And they don’t know better ‘cause their _egg-makers_ didn’t know any better, to teach ‘em; and _they_ didn’t know better ‘cause _their_ egg-makers didn’t know; and _they_ didn’t know better ‘cause -- well, you get it -- they think it’s _normal,_ is the point, but…” A head waggle. “Those shiteating crawlers keep ‘em locked up in a little room, all quiet like a damn tomb, with fucking _guards:_ crawlers with guns _\--_ _guns!_ Around _eggs!_

“And they don’t talk to ‘em or sing to ‘em or -- shit, they give ‘em _nothing --_ just poke and prod and wait, wait, wait til they’re _useful --_ so when the littles come out they can’t do _azgrakh_ at _all,_ ‘cause they don’t know how or even that they _could,_ ‘cause they’ve had _no songs_ or _help_ or _stories_ and nobody ever took care of them the way they’re s’posed to! 

“And then -- I mean, look: you _should_ be hungry for food when you hatch, no question, but it’s _more_ than that, here -- the littles come out starved for _knowledge,_ for _love,_ for _anything at all --_ and right when the egg hatches, they -- they -- they -- 

_“_ Ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ, these goatfucking maggots _refuse to feed the littles until they submit to the first crawler who speaks to ‘em._

“Of _course_ the harnessed ones are all dependent on their captains and whatnot -- they don’t _let_ them make _any_ other attachments, or learn _any_ other stories, or know anything like _real_ love -- it’s -- it’s -- it’s fucking _barbaric,_ is what it is. 

“So anyway, now we’ve shown ‘em what it’s _supposed_ to be like, when you actually get to _choose_ what happens to your eggs; and who you make eggs with; or if you even wanna make eggs in the first place -- and since you’re a Captain, they can -- anyway, Gherni thought it’d work, once we got old Persnickety on our side, and you did pretty good, so.” Another head waggle. “Maybe it will.” 

“Am I to understand, then,” said Tharkay slowly, having made their best attempt at following, “that for the last half-decade or so I have been an unwitting pawn in your nefarious plot to rescue all the eggs in Britain from the Empire’s clutches, as it were?” 

“The _fuck_ you mean, unwitting?” barked Arkady, indignant. “We went over all this in _detail_ before you left on the ship, squirmy, or don’t you remember?” 

“Ah,” said Tharkay. “Not really, to be honest: Wringe was giving me the eye.” 

“Can’t blame you there, ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ.” A dreamy sigh. “Wait, but -- how’d you end up ‘prenticing with Falakji, if you didn’t remember the plan?” 

Tharkay shrugged. “aaaa’AAAAAAAArrrrrrrrRRRrrrrrRRRRRrrrrrrrcq.” 

“Knew we picked the right one,” said Arkady, and burped. “Fucking _knew_ it. And now you’re Named you’re gonna help us make all these other bladderbutts get along, too; and then _they_ can help teach the harnessed ones how to take care of their eggs properly, instead of dropping it all on _us.”_

Ah, and _now_ the plan came full into focus: the Naming, and the tour, and the foster-swaps with each of the lines… “You really _do_ have the sweetest heart, don’t you, dear one.” Tharkay patted Arkady’s neck. “Underneath all that pirate.” 

“Who the _fuck_ asked you, Barky Houndpee-pee,” muttered Arkady, and rolled over to break wind in Tharkay’s direction. 

  
  


***

  
  


_You’ve thrown the worst fear that can ever be hurled  
_ _Fear to bring children into the world_

Fuel, and wind, and rising flame: heat; rage. 

_For abusing our futures unborn and unnamed  
_ _You ain’t worth the blood that runs in your veins_  
  


***

  
  


It was time.

 _“How much do I know,”_ sang Tharkay, _“to talk out of turn?”_

Like many of the traditional verses, this one was meant to be taken by someone very specific: the youngest in the circle, and tonight that was… 

Ning tried to hide behind Tharkay’s legs. 

_“You might say that I’m young; you might say I’m unlearned,”_ sang Tharkay, and pushed her forward: the first line was already written for her; all she had to do was… 

_“But there’s one thing I know, though I’m younger than you,”_ chirruped Ning; her eyes were wide, frantic, but there was nothing for it: that was the point of this exercise -- 

\-- _we’re improvisers, didi --_

\-- and to end the couplet she spat three gouts of white flame, then sang: _“Fuck you, toooooo.”_

“That was well done, heartsung,” said Tharkay as Ning collapsed against his side to resounding cheers from around the fire. “You managed to keep on beat _and_ find a rhyme.” 

  
  


***

  
  


_You once had a heart, or so it would seem  
_ _For you know how just how to shatter our hopes and our dreams_

 _You do it a-purpose; don’t attempt to deny  
_ _Your mouth’s a-moving: that’s how I know that you lie_

  
  


***

  
  


“The little island makes nice digs,” said Arkady as they flew. “Defensible, decent mountains, right in the middle of everything. None of the other lines wanted it, really; but they didn’t want any of the _others_ to have it, either, so -- perfect for us, huh? 

“All these singer-lines here and nobody likes or trusts each other -- blech, that‘s what you get when you let crawlers take charge of everything, squeaky, I’m telling you. Can’t believe they haven’t done foster-swaps in more than a fiver -- ‘s like they don’t even know how to be neighborly, anymore.

“But hey, we’re here now, and we’re not really on anybody’s side ‘cept the eggs; nobody’s got a fight with us. Well, _yet,_ anyhow -- ha! But they’ll all get along just fine soon enough, once you and Gherni’ve gotten the fosters through to azgrakh, inshallah.” 

Tharkay hummed. “Right, so -- the idea is to cajole a half-dozen quarreling ancient dragon factions into putting aside their centuries-old feuds for the sake of the eggs?”

A burp. “More or less, Sproutleeky.” 

“Do you know,” said Tharkay wonderingly. “That just might work.” 

“‘Course it will, I’m an excellent fucking Host,” said Arkady. “They _think_ they’re doing it for us, these foster-swaps; but really it’s so _their_ eggs don’t have to deal with all this sheepshit; and so those poor harnessed fuckers don’t have to -- I mean, _you’ve_ seen those ‘breeding-grounds’ -- ugh, disgusting. Fucking _horrifying._

“Look, nobody’s supposed to just… have egg after egg after egg after egg, like that. ‘Snot good for the body; I mean, no _wonder_ the harnessed ones only live a hundred and fifty years, if they’re making ‘em do it _all the time_ . It just ain’t right, ya’rcq”ilnaanoukxh. Couldn’t sit by and watch these goatfuckers just… _do_ that, to people who are just like me. ‘S fucked up, is what it is.” 

  
  


***

_You convince us we’re worthless; that our pleasure is shame  
_ _And that we’ve nobody but our own selves to blame_

 _In your haste to control us, you missed this one clue:  
_ _The fault ain’t with us, motherfuckers, but YOU._

  
  


***

  
  


“Heartsung, you begin to work my last nerve.” Ning would _not stop talking._ “Go find your egg-makers, will you?” 

The dragonet huffed. “Fine. _Fine.”_

“But remember, don’t --” 

“-- let on to any-one that I’ve seen you, yes, I _know,_ tata.” 

  
  


***

_Do you feel remorse? Can you even repent?  
_ _Won’t do you no good, now: your fortune’s been spent_

 _You purchased our bodies; you sold us as slaves  
_ _But you’ll soon taste the fruits of your ill-gotten gains_

  
  


***

  
  


“We fly on the morrow,” said Gong Su. “But I shall leave you with --” A jar the size of her head. 

“Are you certain you won’t marry me, a chara?” begged Tharkay. “Only I think we could be very happy together.” 

“Had I even the slightest interest in that sort of thing altogether...?” Gong Su pretended to think it over. “Ah, but I’m afraid I must decline, dear friend: I don’t fancy dueling your Admiral for your hand.” 

“What, _these_ old things?” Tharkay held up the appendages in question. “Nobody wants these hands.” 

Gong Su rolled his eyes, but did not answer. 

Tharkay smiled. “Slán agat, a chara.”

“Slán leat,” said Gong Su. 

“Ha! And you thought you wouldn’t remember.”

  
  


***

  
  


_Dear Sirs,_

_I trust you are in good health._

_You will find enclosed herein certain Essential Addenda to the Testimony submitted to the Court some Six Years Past, concerning one Captain Tenzing Tharkay…_

  
  


***

“So, how’re things with Temeraire’s captain, Plow-deepy?” Arkady’s brows would have waggled, had they had any. 

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Soooooooooooooo pretty,” said Arkady. “But not worth the trouble, that’s what you said.” 

“Fuck off, pirate.” 

“Oh, I’d never, ‘ _he’s toooooooooo EEEEEEeeeeeeennnnglish,’_ yup, you said that too, Mouth...keepy?” 

Tharkay snorted. “Now you’re just embarrassing yourself.”

  
  


***

_In sending us forth to edify your foul throne  
_ _You condemn us to die freezing: scared and alone_

 _The fear you’ve been planting has grown into rage  
_ _Did you think we would never break loose from your cage?_

  
  


***

  
  


Wellington’s forehead was wrinkled. Perscitia squinted down at the map. “Explain.” 

“I followed your instructions, my lady,” said Tharkay, “but not quite to the letter.” 

Perscitia looked up. _“Explain,_ Captain.” 

“Rather than simply inform the feral packs of their new status, under the Empire’s law; and show them how their districts would be drawn,” said Tharkay, “I instead took the liberty of asking them what they wanted.” 

  
  


***

  
  


_When we sing to the young ones, and tell them of you  
_ _We’ll sing stories of nothing but bare, honest truth:_

 _You stole them away and kept them enslaved  
_ _Under lock and at gunpoint, lying in their own graves_

  
  


***

  
  


“Don’t give a slithering fuck what they do, s’long as they leave us alone,” said the singer. “We get along with our _own_ fuzzies here just fine, ourselves; got a council and everything -- but we want nothing to do with themselves who keep eggs in neglect and shoot soft-scaled littles.” 

“Local representation, then,” murmured Tharkay, and made a note. “And sovereign territory.” 

“So if we can get this together,” said Arkady, “you’d foster some of the harnessed eggs, though?” 

“Don’t like it, don’t trust it,” said the singer. “But I’d sing the eggs anyway.” 

  
  


***

  
  


_To whom it may concern:_

_If I am a Duchess, then Captain Tharkay must be at the Very Least a Knight; for there is none More Noble._

_Elevate_ _Him_ _._

_Signed,_

  
  


***

  
  


“General, the Government is unlikely to approve a district-map that looks much different from what I’ve drawn here,” said Tharkay. 

“And that’s reason enough to capitulate, is it?” demanded Wellington, but Perscitia stopped him with a gesture. 

Was it worth it to try to explain? Well, but he would not be around much longer, to ensure that it was properly done… Tharkay sighed. “I foresee two outcomes, should you allocate the districts thus. 

“The first: dragons take excellent care of that which is theirs. If you couch it to them in the proper terms, districts represented by dragons will prosper, and their constituents -- _all_ of their constituents -- alongside; far outstripping those districts helmed by inbred pleasure-seekers. 

“The second: your esteemed colleagues seem to think that our friends in the breeding-grounds are incapable of making their homes elsewhere; when in fact no-one in their right mind would choose to live in those cesspits to begin with. One would think,” Tharkay continued pleasantly, “that they would at least consider that dragons have _wings,_ if nothing else; but I have found that those who seek to maintain the status quo will never question a picture which appears to confirm their unexamined assumptions. 

“To conclude: if your aim is to introduce dragons and humans to one another on a scale which will not only rewrite social contract of Britain altogether but also fundamentally redistribute the balance of wealth -- and therefore power -- between the people and the ruling classes, I can think of no better way to do so than this.” He tapped the map. 

Perscitia stared. The general stared. Tharkay looked to Gherni; who trilled, and held up the blindfold she’d lately removed from the general’s countenance. 

“You are,” said Wellington slowly, “a very dangerous man.” 

Tharkay turned back to him and shrugged. “When you allow them to think they’re winning, they don’t notice that they’ve already lost.” 

  
  


***

  
  


_You plant your false standards and lay claim to the land  
_ _And leave behind flags, assuming they’ll stand_

 _You don’t fear me yet; you don’t know that you should  
_ _I might tell you to listen, if I thought that you could_

  
  


***

  
  


“You were captured along with Laurence and the rest in France, if I’m not mistaken,” said Wellington, and Tharkay nodded. “What can you tell me about the tyrant’s situation as it stands? At home, I mean, politically.” 

He answered readily. “Anahuarque is intelligent, reasonable, and open to independent negotiation. Bonaparte is on the back foot and flailing -- his first priority is his son, anymore. 

“If I were to guess, I would say that Anahuarque should like nothing better than to return home with a husband still alive somewhere in exile, allowing her to rule her own empire unimpeded by men who would check her power through marriage. 

“Offer her surrender on those terms: leaving her son ruler of France, in the care of a French Regent -- Talleyrand, say -- and an Incan dragon or two; and I dare say she will sign Bonaparte over in a heartbeat, and thank you for it. The recent influx of population at home is to her benefit, yes; but if she wishes to maintain absolute power in her own empire, she cannot rule from across an ocean. 

“But I put all this in my debrief report. Didn’t they --?” He checked himself. “No, of course not. Well, there you have it. I can provide further details given time to recreate my notes; the originals have surely been destroyed by now.” 

“I think,” said Wellington, “that I want to learn every single detail you may offer me; and hear your advice on the same.” 

Tharkay shrugged again. “Return at your convenience, if you like; I should be more than happy to provide you with what insights I might.” 

  
  


***

  
  


_You don’t even love those you profess to protect,  
_ _For there can be no love absent respect_

 _So why do this, then? Why do it at all?  
_ _Look down, look down: it’s your turn to fall._

  
  


***

  
  


“You said ‘of course not,’ when you mentioned your debrief report.” Wellington was back, this time with a flask in hand. “Why?” 

Tharkay took a drag from his pipe and murmured, “‘False of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand.’”

“What?” 

Ugh, if _Laurence_ were here -- _well-quoted, for a sailor --_ no, no, _no:_ 沒有辦法. He must try to explain some other way.

“This is speculation only, but…” Tharkay took another drag. “The Company can no longer pour opium into China; the practice of human chattel slavery has been abolished on both the African and American continents; and following the successful alliance of Assam and Bengal, their efforts on the Subcontinent will have been scuppered entirely.” 

“Assam and Bengal?” asked Wellington. “How do you know?” 

She smiled. “I had a cup of tea with my line-elder. Taken altogether, it’s hit many of our Lords in their pockets; I happen to know, for example, that the ministers of intelligence themselves had been heavily invested in the continued expansion of the trade in human bondage, prior to abolition. 

“War is expensive -- and lucrative. If I were to hazard a guess? Someone -- many someones, more likely -- is turning a pretty penny from this, and would not see it end.” 

“That’s… but… what kind of man would _condone_ such a thing?” 

_\-- insensible to the wreck and horror -- come, you masters --_ he shrugged. _“_ Those who profit from war have always been content to send others to die for it.” 

“That is fucked,” said Wellington, and took a drink. “But your speculation has the unfortunate ring of truth, Captain.” 

“I have long been accursed thus.” -- _you are ever the wiser --_ “Such are your peers, now, Your Grace.” 

Wellington sighed. “I don’t know why I always thought they were… better, somehow. Than all of us.” 

“They would have you believe it so,” said Tharkay. “I think they even believe it themselves, at times.” 

“Fuck. Fuuuuuuuuck.” Wellington swigged from his flask again. “I don’t suppose you’ve a suitable contact who might carry a message to Anahuarque, and conduct negotiations with her on our behalf?” he asked. “Someone who can be trusted?” 

Tharkay raised an eyebrow. “As a matter of fact.”

  
  


***

_… Material and Invaluable Aid of the Highest Order; and Counsel Unsurpassed in both Wisdom and Compassion: two Virtues which are Sorely Lacking in the present Government, and which must be Intentionally and Wilfully Cultivated if we are to…_

  
  


***

  
  


“How did she seem, my Shining Empress? I’m positively green knowing you’ve seen her more recently than I.” 

“She plays Demeter almost as well as you,” said Tharkay. “I’m sure you’ll get along famously this time around.” 

A wolfish smile. “I’m certain we will.” 

He placed a hand over hers. “Thank you for the stays, Alice. They served me well.” 

“‘Twas my pleasure, a chara.” Vowels like rain. “Shall we go over your notes? Only you’ll need to decipher them for me.” 

  
  


***

  
  


_Mark my words well, now, if you can ever take heed  
_ _Of the ones that you buried, not knowing we were seeds:_

 _Our suffering is your capital; our anguish your gold,  
_ _But trust and believe that your future is told._

  
  


***

  
  


“Do you imagine the Tswana will have been _impressed_ by another maggot-faced European attempting to sell them back their own cultivar; and at the price of their sovereignty, no less?” said Tharkay, and Pemberton snorted. 

“Well,” said Wellington. “When you put it that way.” 

“We managed to establish cordial relations with them in Brazil due only to Admiral Laurence’s influence, and naught else,” said Pemberton, and Tharkay hummed agreement. 

“Well, and Laurence will be the first to tell you that he escaped the African continent with the cure and his life only by grace of the Lady Lethabo and Prince Moshueshue; what goodwill they have afforded him he has earned _despite_ the Empire, not because of it,” he added, and Pemberton nodded. 

“Bonaparte likes to crow about having abolished the trade; but of course he won’t talk about how he brought it back not ten years later, in the sugarcane colonies, once he realized how much he relied on their profits to fund his campaigns. His hand was forced only when those he’d enslaved finally succeeded in organizing to rebel some years back, in what’s now formerly known as Saint-Domingue,” said Pemberton; and Tharkay nodded, and handed her the flask. 

“If you would have good relations with the Tswana, my advice would be to start by enforcing abolition and enacting _real_ emancipation across your territories. Though the Company can no longer legally capture and export human beings as if they were dry goods, they yet keep thousands in bondage on their plantations in the Caribbean,” said Tharkay; and Pemberton nodded, and handed the flask to Wellington. “You might strike a blow to the tyrants and eke out a little goodwill from the Tswana in one swoop, by allying yourselves with and sending material aid to the Republic of Ayiti," Tharkay continued. 

“What, and support a _slave_ rebellion?” Wellington checked himself. “No, you’re quite right.” He took a swallow. 

“Anahuarque will surely be turning her eye toward new territory, when and if she returns home,” said Pemberton, “and Bonaparte actually had _them_ pay _him_ indemnity, to the tune of some millions of pounds, if you can believe it -- because in striking their chains, the revolutionaries had _stolen property_ from those who had enslaved them, you see: stolen _themselves.”_ Tharkay scoffed, and handed her the pipe. 

“At least Laurence had the good sense to make sure the money came from the British Crown, in Brazil, and not from those formerly kept in bondage -- what an atrocity _that_ would have been,” said Tharkay; and Pemberton raised her eyebrows, and exchanged pipe for flask with Wellington. 

“I was at the cabinet meeting where that was discussed,” said Wellington slowly, taking the pipe. “They were -- unhappy. I -- I think they might have killed him, rather than see it done.” 

Pemberton and Tharkay exchanged a look. “Of course they would have: it cut into their profits,” said Tharkay dismissively, and accepted the flask. “But profit must never precede lives, General.” 

“I have seen… hundreds, _thousands_ of men slaughtered upon the field of battle; in many cases I’ve even ordered it so,” said Wellington, and drew from the pipe. “To ascend to the places of power only to find that their deaths were not for good, but for _gain…”_ He drew again and exhaled: smoke, rising into cold night air. “The sight of a man’s bowels no longer turns my stomach; and yet now I find myself sickened.” He passed the pipe to Tharkay. “But it is a little heartening to know that I may yet likewise find myself among trusted comrades, even so.” 

Tharkay took the pipe, and handed Wellington the flask. “You should stay for the fire tonight, comrade,” he said. “And give us a verse.” 

Soon after that a message had arrived from his lawyers, informing him that there had been an update to his case. Well, and the only surprise was that it had taken Whitehall this long to move against him; now they had a pretext, however flimsy, to convict him in absentia of something or other, and publicly declare him a fugitive from the law. 

It didn’t change his situation much at all, though it _did_ tell him that he had not been as successful as he’d hoped at convincing Whitehall of his death. There was nothing to be done for it -- 沒有辦法: _win the war first. Think about after… after._

  
  
  


***

  
  


_While you simpered and blustered and counted your coins  
_ _A bill came up due that you cannot avoid_

 _You may try now to run; you will try now to hide  
_ _But you can never escape the incoming tide_

  
  


***

  
  


“Slán agat, a chara.”

“Slán leat.” 

_“Bleargh.”_ A smile. “I don’t know what I expected.” 

  
  


***

_I tell you this true, now: your money’s no good  
_ _It can’t buy you forgiveness; did you think that it would?_

 _There is only one way to pay this final toll:  
_ _All that money you made can never buy back your soul_

  
  


***

*Laurence walked back to his cabin by way of the courier-clearing—a route which took him nearly half a mile out of his way and wasted precious sleep; but he could not help making one final visit. By his best estimate, the answer from the legions might have come yesterday, ought to have come to-day, and could yet come tomorrow without disaster. After that, hope would have failed: they would face Napoleon again before even a small part of the Chinese legions might join their force;* and moreover, even what meagre aid he’d attempted to scrape together on Tharkay’s behalf would be dashed to pieces. _No, no. Don’t think about it, don’t think about --_

沒有辦法: _win the war, first. You’ve done what you can._

*Word would be sent to his quarters at once, if a Jade Dragon landed; Laurence knew it very well. Nevertheless, his feet took him past the courier-clearing, and as he drew near, he heard the leathery flap of wings aloft, a dragon coming down, and saw the two blue flares and one green, which were the safe-passage signal for their camp. His steps quickened to an undignified pace, and he nearly ran up onto Hammond’s heels: that gentleman was standing at the edge of the clearing, his hands clasped anxiously, and staring up into the dark. 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Hammond,” Laurence said, extremely surprised to find him there. 

“Oh—! Admiral!” Hammond cried aloud: equally surprised, with less right to be so, and a look of anxiety Laurence could not understand. 

The dragon came down. She was an unfamiliar beast, a heavy courier in Austrian colors, wearing a white flag of parley. She was carrying passengers: gentlemen passengers, swathed thickly in furred oilskins for the journey, who climbed down with the awkwardness of men not used to go aloft very often. One of them had especial difficulty, and required the support of a gold-handled cane when he reached the ground; Laurence appalled realized it was none other than Monsieur de Talleyrand himself, whom report had restored to Napoleon’s service—as though Hammond had chosen to invite a pair of the Emperor’s eyes to come and wander about their covert, and look in on all the latest arrangements of their aerial forces. 

That Hammond was responsible was plain: he had already gone forward to his guests, greeting the second passenger as Count Metternich. He had surely united the ministers here for some secret final attempt at negotiation. Laurence was sorry to learn of anything so plainly not meant for his own eyes, but any sense of intrusion he might have felt was under the circumstances exploded by Hammond’s indiscretion, which he now evidently meant to crown by leading Napoleon’s minister along the main track which led down into the field-covert and directly past their assembled forces—including all the ferals which had lately been recruited to their cause. 

“Mr. Hammond, sir, forgive me, you have been turned around; I think you must mean to take this path,” Laurence said loudly, and catching Hammond by the arm drew him to the slighter track at the opposite end of the clearing, which swung out wide around the covert to reach the headquarters, and was used by those nervous of coming too near the dragons. “Sir,” he said, low but sharply, “if you have not before considered the material value to Napoleon of any intelligence about the disposition of our aerial forces, I must ask you do so now. Keep Monsieur de Talleyrand from sight of the clearings, and do not bring him back here. I will send the beast on to headquarters to wait for you.” 

Hammond colored and stammered an apology at once. “Very sorry—I assure you there was no—all my apologies, Admiral, you are right, of course,” and after a moment’s hesitation added, “We will be on the west slope, at the green farmhouse—I did not like to trouble you for a passage—” 

“Then I will have one of our couriers escort the Austrian courier there,” Laurence said, not much appeased; Hammond ought not have put such a peculiar value on asking for the small inconvenience of an escort for his courier at the cost of exposing them all to the bright, curious looks of Talleyrand, who even now observed their whispered conversation placidly, and without any evident qualms at overhearing whatever he might. 

The only comfort was the lateness of the hour, which should have bleached away the colors of the dragons and sent most of them to sleep; Talleyrand could have got no very exact count from aloft. By the time Laurence had made the arrangements and seen the ministers off to their negotiations without further harm to secrecy, an hour had been consumed, and the full dark had descended. 

No other couriers had come. He knew he ought to seek his own rest. But he lingered a little longer, to the ill-concealed disgust of the watch, who plainly would have liked nothing better than to go to sleep themselves even though they were on duty. He paced away another half an hour, by the glass, before at last he took himself away. 

He was at the very door of his cabin when one of the watch-officers came running after him, even more disgusted now and panting, to tell him a Jade Dragon had arrived, and to hand him a scroll, written in Chinese. Laurence turned it right-way up and read it swiftly. “Very good” was all he said, and the watch officer went away even more disgruntled, without even gossip to carry; but Laurence went into his cabin and shut the door, and when he fell upon his cot he slept at once, dreamlessly, and well:* there would be an after. There _would be an after,_ and now there was a chance of them having it _together._

  
  


*** 

  
  


_You will die at our hands; it shall come swift and soon  
_ _I will follow your casket in the pale afternoon_

 _And I’ll watch while you’re lowered into your deathbed  
_ _And I’ll stand o’er your grave ‘til I’m sure that you’re dead_

  
  


***

  
  


Then the second message reached him, informing Tharkay that no, _really,_ there had been an _update_ to his _case,_ and he had better pay them a visit at his earliest possible convenience _._

And when he arrived -- 

“It’s yours, if you want it.”

Three letters, lying there on the desk: one from Wellington, clearly dictated by Perscitia; one from Roland, which amounted to little more than _give him the damn thing;_ and one clearly from Laurence, which dripped with ribbons and wax -- and as Tharkay scanned it over his eye was drawn to -- a large gold mark, at the bottom, round and -- and -- and -- 

Ohhh…

“That’s never real; it can’t -- is that _r_ _eal?”_ But he knew the answer was yes, yes, _yes_ \-- 

Of _course_ it was, of _course_ it was real: Laurence would _never_ misuse the Imperial dragon seal, not in a thousand years; and Gong Su would never have allowed it even if he’d tried, which meant that the Emperor of China had as good as signed the letter himself, which meant that Laurence had -- Laurence had -- well, and having already written to _one_ Emperor on his behalf, why not another? 

He detected Gong Su’s influence at work here, too -- _I don’t fancy dueling your Admiral for --_ ohhh, tricky, _tricky_ Gong Su -- 

“It’s real,” one of them confirmed. 

\-- a bubble of only slightly unhinged laughter escaped Tharkay’s lips. 

The language of Laurence’s testimony, as Tharkay read it over, was itself rather dry and characteristically profuse: outlining his critical role in the war effort, giving highest commendation to the quality of his character, etc, etc -- 

\-- 沒有辦法 -- 

\-- and then he reached the last paragraph, and stood so abruptly that his chair fell over. 

“No.” The letter dropped from numb fingers. “Absolutely fucking not.” 

_Breathe._

He was out the door in a trice. 

沒有 ruled Tharkay’s first lap around the Rothschilds’ country manor. In fact, 沒有 told him to whistle for Wringe and fly away with all possible expediency, perhaps to Marrakech or Djuba or Ouagadougou: somewhere they’d never, _ever_ find him. 

Tharkay overrode the impulse with no little effort, and as he came around again to the front door he turned toward it as if to enter, but -- 沒有, 沒有, 沒有... 

One more lap. 

_\-- this is no service you owe --_ 沒有必要 -- _a damnable thing, to be forever reminded that one is too much betwixt and between to belong --_ 沒有差別 -- _those who love us truly and well -- no less than full measure of loyalty -- there is darkness beneath the butter lamp, though it brings light to distant places --_ 沒有理由 _\-- you have oriented me to truth -- 沒有必要 -- you are my compass --_

No, no, no, no, _no._ Not Britain, not this, never this, _no._ He didn’t _want_ it. He _didn't._

One more lap, just one. 

沒有 was still whispering inside his mind, but -- _सुभाय्, tata_ \-- _a runt nobody wanted, just like us -- you have never been unwanted -- ndiyakuthanda: I love you -- sula inyembezi; izakubonana: dry your tears; we’ll meet again -- it makes me want to be better, to make the world better --_ _you have me, for as long as I'm around -- we will always be your fiercest advocates --_

He had made Sipho and Demane a _promise._

\-- _once you and Gherni get the eggs through to azgrakh, inshallah -- your speculation has the unfortunate ring of truth -- I think they might have killed him, rather than see it done --_ there was work to be done; was Tharkay really going to abandon his pack and fellows now, when he had the chance to see it through? 

_Mountain, ocean, jewel: that’s pretty good --_

One more, one more, one more lap. 

They had _testified_ on his behalf. They had publicly _signed their names_ to letters for _him;_ even Wellington and _Roland_ had followed Laurence’s example -- _I will shake empires down to their foundations --_ he had never allowed himself to _trust_ Laurence’s promises in the dark, not _really,_ not even after France; nor to hope that he might _see_ how matters stood, let alone take action, on his behalf; but this was… this was -- _doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move --_ 沒有意義 -- _Athena, Cassandra, Iris, Brizo --_ ohh, _oh,_ this was a chance for the home he wanted, for a _home,_ with -- with -- with someone he -- someone who --

\-- one more lap. 

It was over an hour before Tharkay finally succeeded in forcing himself back to the drawing-room, where his lawyers had not moved except to refill their cups. 

“Right. Well, then.” He downed his drink, and sat. “How do we do this?” 

***

  
  


_It is a Travesty, an Egregious Miscarriage of Justice that this Testimony should be necessary At All; for Every Man has the right to live Safe and Secure in his Own Home, surrounded by those who Love Him. The only recourse for Britain to redress this Grave Injustice is to immediately Acknowledge and Honor this Citizen of Hers as his Natural and Proper Due. For our own part, We Shall Not Be Divided From Captain Tharkay For Any Cause Save Death._

_Yr obdt svt etc._

_His Imperial Highness Admiral William Laurence, of  
_ _Temeraire Lung Tien Xiang_

  
  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Temeraire: i wanna be the very best  
> Temeraire: that no one ever was 
> 
> Arkady: wait waitwaitwaitwait they do WHAT to your eggs????????  
> Harnessed dragons:  
> Scottish packs: 👀  
> Welsh packs: 👀  
> Irish packs: 👀  
> Brythonic packs: 👀  
> Anglo packs: 👀  
> Arkady:  
> Arkady:  
> Arkady: ok look  
> Arkady: not to be *that guy* or anything, but like  
> Arkady: this feels like a reproductive justice issue 
> 
> Laurence: PER MY PREVIOUS EMAIL 
> 
> Q) how do you kill an empire?  
> Laurence: ~~~~~~*~~*~*~~*~~~~* a dreeeam is a wish your heart maaakes *~*~*~~~~  
> Tharkay: meticulous planning  
> Tharkay: tenacity spanning  
> Laurence: ~~*~*~~*~*~~~ when you wish upon a staaaaaar *~*~*~ ~~  
> Tharkay: decades with the team on your back  
> Tharkay: and also a dragon pack


	7. Nottingham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday I'll Find My Way Home from the Carole and Tuesday soundtrack 
> 
> *asterisked bits are copy-pasted* from canon with minor formatting/punctuation edits and *the bit at the end is fully just the actual ending, like, of the books*

#  **Nottingham ;**

**or,**

**Tharkay dresses himself**

*******

  
  
  
  
  


Tenzing Tharkay woke before dawn, a smile already creeping across his face, and leapt from bed to hurry into his dressing-gown.

Home. _Home._ He was _home._

The stone walls felt just the same as they always had; and from his windows he saw bars of sunlight creeping across the southern fields, just as they always did; and he could sit at his dressing-table and brush his hair while he watched the world awaken outside, just as he always could. 

He crossed his legs at the ankle, humming tunelessly, and shifted his weight onto one hip. His hair was getting long and longer still -- of course it was, that was what hair _did,_ but -- but now even more so than usual: there hadn’t been anyone to tell him to cut it, at school, so he’d just… let it grow. 

It felt good, like this. 

There were so many things to be done with it, so many ways it could transform. He could twist it around into one great rope, and turn that rope into a snail-shell of a bun at the side of his head -- and then let it go, and all of that hair would untwist and fall over his shoulders once more -- and then he could catch it up, with his hands, and make a plait; leaving some certain locks to spill over his collarbone, just like a lady, while the rest -- 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” 

Blue eyes, in the mirror -- Tenzing froze, but -- but _why_ had he frozen; _why_ was his heart beating out of his chest -- why was his father reacting as if he’d been doing something _filthy,_ something _wrong --_

“I asked you a _question,_ boy.” Albert strode across the room

Oh, no. No -- no, _please_ \-- no, please, no -- _no,_ he was _home,_ he -- not this, not here, not _here --_ no, please, _not --_

  
  


***

  
  


One year almost to the day after Wringe and Arkady had come to his rescue, Tharkay tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi woke before dawn; and spent a long time flying up near weathered planks, watching the light turn from blue to grey to bright. 

He had no dressing-gown, no valet: nothing and no-one to help him try on this new self, nothing to shield himself from it. There were so many -- so many _particulars,_ so many _steps,_ so many things which had to be _just so_ in order for it all to be _right,_ for this: for today of all days, for -- for -- everything had to be _perfect,_ it _had_ to, and there were _so many things_ to be done _\--_

_Breathe. Like this, like the waves._

He breathed. 

_Breathe: it need not all happen at once._

Perhaps if he went piecemeal… 

_Breathe. Then try sitting up._

Yes, this could work. 

_Breathe, and get out of bed._

Just… here, here, stay _here,_ and don’t -- 

_Breathe, and wash your face…._

And thus, little by little -- step by tiny stumbling step -- did Tharkay begin to assemble all of the pieces of himself he would need to walk out of his hotel room as the Right Honourable Lord Captain Tenzing Tharkay of Temeraire, First Earl of Peaksmoor and Protector Regent of the Isle of Man. 

  
  


***

  
  


“No,” she said flatly. “Absolutely not.” 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” said Kanta. 

_“She’s_ the one you want for that sort of thing.” Lumanti pointed to Preeti. “I just play the music.” 

“But _she_ does it all the time; that’s _boring.”_

“Thanks ever so,” said Preeti. 

“Aww don’t be like that, you know what I meant. Lumanti’s always dressed so _plain_ \-- don’t you want to see her dolled up proper?” 

“Point of order: Lumanti-didi does much more than ‘just play the music,’” drawled Mirza, not looking up from his paper. “I dare say that’s why she dresses thus; with her head in the clouds as it is most of the time, composing and things, she’s not got space for much else.” 

“Thanks ever so,” said Lumanti. 

“All the more reason to take a _break,”_ said Kanta. “A _dance_ break.” 

“Help me,” said Lumanti to Preeti. 

“Let’s do it,” said Preeti to Kanta. 

“Nooooooo -- Mirza, help me --” 

“As the moon wanes to new only to wax anew: thus approacheth the hour whence the kinnara revealeth their splendor.” 

“Fuck you,” said Lumanti. “You fucking poet. If I go, you’re coming down with me.” 

“Done,” said Mirza, and set his paper aside, grinning. “See you in hell.” 

“Damn it all, I thought that’d work.” 

“Excellent! I’ll take her and you’ll take him,” said Kanta to Preeti. “Durga and Kali, do you think?” 

Preeti rolled her eyes. “Obviously.” 

  
  
  


***

  
  


“Oh,” said his aji. “Oh, my baby.” 

Tenzing froze, heart beating in his throat, his mouth, his temples. “I -- I’m sorry, Aji, I --” 

“Well, we can’t have that,” she said briskly, and began unwinding the saree from around his waist. “No, don’t apologize; pay attention, for I won’t always be around to do it for you.” 

“Aji,” said Tenzing. 

She snapped her fingers. “I said pay _attention.”_

  
  


***

  
  


“The chemise was a brilliant stroke, my tailor; the stays really are _much_ more comfortable thus.”

“I’m glad,” murmured Laurence as he laced them. “I’ll have more made; they’re easier to launder, too. I wonder whether I could get these seams to lie flat...?” 

Tharkay chuckled. “Ever considerate, aren’t you.” 

“I do my best,” said Laurence. “There, how’s that?” 

“We’ll see.” Tharkay lurched to his feet, hair swinging loose, having lately suffered another round of Arachne’s attentions -- not that he was complaining; far from it. “Will you bring me my robe?” 

“Merrily.” Laurence trotted across the room. “Happily, gladly, cheerfully, of course.” 

“Did we finish the bowl?” Tharkay smoothed shaking hands down trembling thighs. 

“In fact we did not,” Laurence intoned. 

“Excellent.” _Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._ “Bring that, too.” 

Laurence turned, and -- and oh, his eyes, his _eyes_ \-- his eyes fell upon -- upon -- _ohhh,_ and Laurence had always seen things clearly -- _she_ was surely exposed, flayed to the bone: Laurence would _see --_

And then those _eyes,_ those blue, blue eyes -- sea-sky eyes, shining true and clear -- were casting themselves _all_ over him, flowing slow like honey and soft like starlight, and that buttercream smile was _back,_ and -- 

  
  


***

  
  


“I can certainly assist with the jewelry; but I’m afraid Falakji’s offering is beyond my skill,” said Gong Su apologetically. “Do you know how to do it?” 

  
  


***

  
  


A hard grip. “Do you remember how I taught you, dear one?” 

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Aji, I remember it, I remember.” 

“Good.” She released her arm. “Show me.” 

“But --” 

_“Show_ me,” she insisted. “I won’t always be around to do it for you, you know.” 

  
  
  


***

  
  


“Shoo,” he said, somewhat fondly. “You won’t get the full effect in here, I’m sure; I’ll come out to the deck in a moment, once I’ve changed.” 

\-- _do not even know how much more than decent --_

Ugh. _Surely_ Will had been exaggerating. 

  
  


***

  
  


She felt -- well, she felt _beautiful,_ and she felt _ridiculous,_ and she felt -- _exposed,_ for it was how she’d _always wanted_ to feel, and they would -- they would _see,_ how much she wanted it, how much it meant, they would all _see it --_

_Breathe._

  
  


***

  
  


He was striding through a burning city, he was climbing the servants’ stair, he was opening a door. 

*“I hope I find you in good health.”* 

Laurence’s head jerked up, whipped round. 

*“Will you come with me?”* asked Tharkay. *“I believe there is still danger of fire.”* 

Ohhh, those eyes, those _eyes,_ falling all over him, taking him in and _seeing_ him, seeing what he’d done in a single glance _\-- yes -- yes, for you, for you I have let them bind me further, William Laurence, yes; you and Temeraire._

A sword-belt; a green coat; _two_ pairs of gold bars. 

Tharkay extended a hand. 

Laurence looked -- and looked, and looked, and _looked;_ they had no _time_ for this, but -- and then Laurence was stumbling forward to accept the offered grace: tentative, at first, placing one trembling hand in his, and then -- when Tharkay did not flinch -- Laurence was _clinging_ to him with both hands: clutching, gripping as if to a life-line, just like Istanbul. 

“Why, Captain,” he croaked -- 

“Why, kinnara-didi,” said Preeti -- 

“Why, Tenzing,” said his aji -- 

“Why, my lady,” said Laurence -- 

“Why, comrade,” said Gong Su -- 

“Why, Lumanti,” said her aji -- 

“Why, Tenzing,” said Will -- 

“Why, Cloudspeaky,” said Arkady -- 

*“Why, Tharkay,”* said Temeraire -- 

\-- _here, stay here, stay with me --_

*“How elegant you look.”* 

His eyes went to Laurence, and Tharkay knew that he could not speak, no, he could not, he could _not -- we’ve said that before, haven’t we, or something very like --_ no, _stay here, stay here._

*“I hope you will forgive the intrusion.”* Crystal vowels: a retreat into _this,_ yes -- the safety of irony; the latitude provided by gentlemanly decorum; for *he was indeed dressed with unusual splendor, in magnificently polished Hessians, with a many-caped greatcoat, and a walking-stick topped in gold* -- and Laurence would never have said anything; and of _course_ Temeraire was always going to say something, and thereby express with guileless words the truths which neither of them could ever speak aloud. 

*“You are very welcome, Tenzing, if unexpected: we looked for you in Paris.”* Laurence offered his hand, and -- oh, that _smile --_ it felt so good to _see_ him, to see them both safe and whole -- to be _here_ with them, in this place, doing _this,_ playing this familiar game… it would almost have been fun, if only the stakes hadn’t been so high. 

*“As enjoyable as the display of the Empress’s powers must have been to observe, I was called away on my personal business.”* Tharkay’s heart was beating in his mouth as he accepted Laurence’s hand to shake. *“One might have supposed a law-suit which has consumed the better part of twenty years might support a few weeks’ further delay, but under the circumstances, I did not wish to hazard it.”*

Laurence’s grip tightened. *“You have won your case, then?”* 

*“I have. Not without several interventions on my behalf: I must thank you again for your testimony.”* Tharkay brought his other hand to join their clasp _\-- before you flew across the Channel, you --_

*“I suspect it has served you more ill than good, since I made it, but if my present fame has made it of value again, I can only be glad.”* And Laurence brought his other hand to join their clasp in his turn -- _I thought I might have bungled that up, too --_

*“Oh, your star rises and falls with enough regularity that it was only a matter of time,”* drawled Tharkay, and then added: “And Her Grace’s power is at present very great.”* _You were the first, and because you were first, you were not the last; they followed your example._

*“So you have your estates at last!” Temeraire said jubilantly, and without delay inquired, “And pray, what is the rent-roll; do I have that right? Or the income per annum?” 

“Shamefully low,” Tharkay said,* with a fond smile: it was a relief to focus on Temeraire once more, for Laurence’s gaze was like to drown him in its intensity. *“My cousins and the trustee have neglected all improvements, and plundered as much as they could; it will be some time before I have restored things to order. However, in one particular, the estate is desirable: perhaps you know about the new seats which have been set aside, for dragons?”*

*“Oh, yes!” Temeraire said. “Twenty of them; Perscitia wrote to me.” 

“The Government has established nearly all the seats in isolate regions of the countryside, and managed to put all the population of serving-beasts and retired dragons, in the breeding grounds, into three: the boundary-lines have been quite creatively drawn. The others are peopled almost entirely by ferals, and the Government supposes them unlikely to appear for voting.”* And Laurence’s eyes were on him, _seeing_ him -- _it was you, wasn’t it --_

*Temeraire snorted. “We must trust them to always carry out their promises in the most scaly manner, I suppose. Well, Perscitia and I must just manage it. I will ask Ricarlee to run: I am sure Parliament deserves him.”* _\-- the pattern, and how it all fits --_ no, he could not look, he could not look at Laurence. 

*“I am informed,” Tharkay said, “that my own lands fall in one such empty district.”* A sharp intake of breath: _you are the only one who could have -- *_ “As the area is entirely devoid of dragons so far as I know, I am sorry there is not much company on offer,”* -- and here Laurence’s hands tightened again, and Tharkay half-smiled, turning back to face him -- *“but I have a notable forest for deer-hunting, and I should be delighted to make you free of any place you like to put up a pavilion, and make yourselves at home.”*

*“I am afraid we are inconvenient houseguests.”* Ever the polite demurral: the chance given to refuse, to deny. *“Are you certain you wish to make so extended an invitation?”* _Yes?_

Tharkay tightened his grip, and raised an eyebrow. *“I quite look forward to figuring as a tyrant in the imagination of my tenantry.”* _Stay with me. Please._

Laurence was shaking all over. “Then -- then yes, _yes,_ of course, my -- yes.” It spilled out all in a rush, faltering… 

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

Tharkay tilted his head, and raised his other eyebrow: holding their gaze, pinning Laurence in it, keeping him there. “Yes?” 

Laurence’s eyes were steady again: brimming with light, like the sun on the sea. “Yes.” 

Tharkay’s teeth clenched. If they held on to each other any harder they were like to break what was left of his hands, and -- and they could not, they could _not,_ not here, of all places -- in full view of the carriage-driver and any-one else who might be roaming Laurence’s family’s estate, but if -- if he stayed any longer he would, he _would,_ he _\--_ he tugged at his hands. “I must away.” 

Laurence loosened his grip immediately. “Will you not stay to dine?”

“No, I --” _have to leave, right now, else I may --_ “I must, I, but -- perhaps we might --” 

“Yes,” said Laurence. “Breakfast, or -- yes.” 

“Wh--” 

“I will follow you anywhere.” Laurence’s face was flushed, and his _eyes_ \-- and then he cleared his throat. “That is to say -- I should be very glad to call upon you at -- at a place convenient to you, at the appointed hour.” 

  
  


***

  
  


*They spoke a little while longer, as the sun went down, and made arrangements to meet for breakfast the following morning, at Tharkay’s hotel; then he took his leave again, with the tact that plainly meant to permit them private conversation.

“Why Laurence, I call that handsome,” Temeraire said. “Do you suppose you should like it? But perhaps you would rather we went back to our pavilion, in Australia: I know you are not fond of politics.” 

For a moment, the sun rose out of the Blue Mountains and shone red-gold on the cut stone floor of the half-finished pavilion, spilled down light into the valley below and over the softly lowing herd of cattle: another memory of home, of peace and simplicity. But that could only be a flight, almost a surrender. The reward of true service, surely, was to be asked for more; and Laurence could not claim Temeraire’s work was done, even if his own might have been called so.

“No, my dear,” Laurence said. “I do not think a life of quiet retirement is our lot, nor yet should be; and our valley will wait until that has changed.” He laid his hand on Temeraire’s muzzle and looked north and west, towards the curve of the ocean, towards _home._ “Tharkay’s estates are in the Peaks: I think you will like the countryside very much.” 

“I am sure I will, Laurence,” Temeraire said. “And surely it will be famous, to be in Parliament.”*

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tharkay: um so will u marry me  
> Laurence: a thouSAND TIMES YES  
> Tharkay: cool, bye forever 
> 
> Q) so is Tharkay a Man or a Woman?  
> Tharkay: no  
> Laurence: i don’t understand the question


	8. The Peaks District

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's January 22, 2021, and I was surprised by the actual relief I felt this week. 
> 
> Content warning for mentions of violence against trans femme(s) of color, who are disproportionately targets of gender-based hate crimes
> 
> HEAVN by Jamila Woods

#  **The Peaks District ;**

**or,**

**a nest**

*******

  
  
  
  
  
  


The wind snatched his breath away, up into the open sky above gleaming ice and jagged rock. 

It was -- home. But it wasn’t. 

But it _was._

The land remembered him. The mountains and rivers, they remembered him. 

He’d crossed _so_ many horizons, to get here -- he’d barely dared even to hope that it might be possible, but he was -- he had _found_ her, he had _made it,_ and if… if she wanted him, he might -- he might _stay,_ a while, and if he stayed he _knew_ he would find his breath, he _would._

He _had_ to. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


“A _drop spindle?”_ Oh, oh _yes,_ there it was: that look of pleased confusion, or else confused pleasure… “I haven’t used one of these since before I left home.” 

“I thought it would pair nicely with the rest of your furnishings.” Tharkay couldn’t help the smile: that now-familiar friend which broke across his face unbidden rather frequently, these days. 

“My --?” Oh, it was _definitely_ pleased confusion, and it was everything he could ever want. 

“You’ll see. Here’s you; I’m just across the hall and down a bit. This is the only key.” He dropped it into Laurence’s hand and stood back to let him enter the suite alone. 

Laurence got about halfway across the room before he turned back to Tharkay, still at the threshold. “Aren’t you --” His gaze both softened and sharpened. “Please, Tenzing, won’t you come in.” 

A half-smile. “With pleasure.” 

The sitting-room wasn’t much more than a hearth and a set of doors opening onto terrace, but in the corner -- 

“Is that --?” Laurence approached. 

Tharkay followed close behind. “Yes.” 

“But it’s…” A trembling hand, placed upon polished wood. “It’s not for --?” 

“Yes, of course it is; who else?” Oh, oh _dearest -- has no-one been taking care of you, beloved, in my absence? I’m here now, I’m here, I will keep you safe: rest, dear one, rest --_ “You’ve been Odysseus for so long, my sailor,” Tharkay whispered, eyes soft. “I thought you might like to play Penelope a while.” 

  
  
  


***

  
  


She was -- she was _here._

She was here, _right here,_ his aji was _here --_ sitting cross-legged on the floor: calm, and rooted, and smiling, and _right in front of him._

He made it three steps before falling to his knees to crawl into her lap. 

“Tenzing,” she whispered. “Oh, Tenzing.” Her arms were strong around him, holding him close; her hands stroked his hair, his forehead, his face.

He couldn’t stop crying, no matter how hard he tried. “Aji, Aji, Aji -- I’m sorry, Aji, I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, I, I’m -- I’m so sorry --” 

What was he even apologizing for? 

_For denying myself, for denying who I am, for ever letting them make me deny you --_

“There is -- ----- -- ------, beloved child.” She spoke slowly, deliberately, and yet -- oh, _oh,_ he _could not speak to her…_ “Shall I ------- -- you the story, -- --- this village --- --- name?” 

  
  
  


***

  
  


Laurence’s knees buckled. 

His knees buckled, but it was all right, it was _all right,_ because Tharkay was here to catch him -- to make sure his head didn’t hit the loom on the way down, to scoot them both backward so that he could rest against the wall and cradle Laurence in his arms, and rock him, and stroke his hair in empathy while he cried. 

“I’m here.” He pressed warm lips to his forehead. “You’re here, I’m here, we are here together. We’ve done it, we’ve _done_ it -- you’ve done it, Will: you’re safe, you’re here, you’re _home.”_

Laurence shook his head. _“You’re_ home.”

 _“We’re_ home, then.” 

Another head shake. _“Your_ home.”

 _“Our_ home.”

He seemed frustrated, for some reason -- “Ithaca, Tenzing, you are -- you _are_ home, _you_ are Ithaca, you --” and he clung to Tharkay at the waist, breaking into another sob, and placed his forehead at that _spot,_ that _exact_ spot just between shoulder and chest -- 

Oh. _Oh._

Well, and now _he_ was weeping, too. 

***

  
  


“Do you -------- samebaji?” There was a -- a plate of food, a plate which smelled of comfort, of love, of _home…_

“Achar, khya,” whispered Tenzing, pointing to each. “Bhuti.” 

“Yes. Yes, exactly.” 

“I slept of this,” he said slowly. “Many times.” 

“Of course you ----- -- ----; it ------ was your favorite.” 

“How does you know?” 

“What a ----- question! Because I know _you,_ my Tenzing, my --------- ----. Now eat, my baby, _eat_ \-- you’re so ----, _far_ too ----; hasn’t anyone been ------ ---- of you?”   
  


***

  
  


“All right, Endymion, time for coffee.” He sailed into Laurence’s bedroom, having knocked and been granted entry. 

“Tenzing, you -- you must know I don’t expect --” 

“There’s nothing for it, my tailor: I wanted breakfast, and you’re still abed.” 

It was just like Peking, only _so much_ better, for they were safe, they were _whole,_ they were _home._ They didn’t even need to _speak,_ just -- just sit here, together, and have their breakfast, and watch the light sweep and the mist rise, over the eastern pastures. 

He caught Laurence’s wince. “Mm?” 

“No, it’s -- it’s nothing, it’s quite all right.” 

“Will.” His eyes were unfocused, when he finally raised them: _oh…_ “Don’t do that. You don’t have to pretend, here. It’s -- It’s the plates, isn’t it.” 

A nod. “The -- clinking. High, piercing noises, they hurt.” 

“Well, that’s easily enough fixed. No, don’t argue, my sailor: it’s my honor to relieve your pain even the meanest amount.” 

And from then on, he served their meals upon plates made of polished wood. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


“---- -- the fire, beloved child; it’s ------- ---.” 

Tenzing couldn’t help the smile that broke across his face when she called him that -- it bloomed there unbidden every single time. “Yes, Aji.” 

  
  
  


***

  
  


Tharkay took great pleasure in filling his days with domestic chores: pumping water, chopping firewood -- receiving the daily delivery of eggs and bread; and the weekly batch of meat and vegetables, from the village. 

\-- _I wake and find that my only duties are to --_

Dawn was for quiet breakfast and coffee, watching the sun rise, followed by days spent with Temeraire, half-in half-out of the -- well, the ‘big room,’ they’d taken to calling it; for it was a sort of conservatory-dayroom-library-drawing-room-study, situated on the second floor between their two suites, and opening out onto the terrace which ran the whole east wing of the house. Tharkay had chosen to open this wing first for that particular reason: it worked well for a household which included a twenty-ton dragon. 

\-- _though that freedom still scares me a little --_

Well, and because it had been unoccupied, when he had last lived here, and closed for more than a decade since. 

For now it was just the two of them in the house -- only the five rooms open, all told; six if you counted the kitchen. And now that they were -- well, they could -- they could _make plans together,_ if they wanted. 

\-- _I am living. I am learning how --_

“There’s a set of adjoining rooms down the hall; I thought those might work well for the boys. And -- there’s one more suite, on this floor, a little removed from the others…” 

“Mm.” Laurence’s eyes followed the spindle-wheel as he fed the rolag onto the shaft: down, up, spin -- down, up, spin -- “A landing-place, for Gong Su.” 

“Yes,” said Tharkay. “Yes, exactly.” 

  
  


***

  
  
  


“Tenzing, what are you ----- awake?”

“I can’t dream.” 

“Mm, I was just about to --- - --- -------. Do you want to ------- arati with me, my baby? Come, I will show you --- -- ----- puja; do you remember the -------song?” 

“Mm?” He was getting better at following the words, a little. 

“Yes, ‘------,’ you know, giving thanks. I give thanks that you are here, I sing ‘------’ that you are home.” _Praise,_ then. Or _blessings_ . “Ah -- this I think you will remember: _I shall perform arati before the venerable Ghana…”_

 _“Day and night I shall invoke the name of Dasabala,”_ sang Tenzing -- but how, _how_ did he have these words, in this tongue he barely remembered? _“I shall do worship with grains of unbroken rice, sandalwood powder, flowers, incense, rasa, and lamps...”_

“Yes,” said his aji. “Yes, exactly. You still know the prayer -- well, and of course you would: it’s the first song you ever learned, did you know that?” 

The words were bubbling inside him, like a fountain from beneath bedrock -- _“I shall play the cymbals, the mrdanga and the dholaka, and, along with the damaru and other musical instruments, I shall blow the conch,”_ he sang. 

_“Know the year by joining mountain, ocean, and jewel,”_ sang his aji, and then they finished it together -- 

_“Folding my hands again and again, I shall say my prayer.”_

A creased smile, and sparkling black eyes. “Yes. Yes, exactly -- come, come here, my baby, and I will show you. When we perform arati we bring the sacred flame before the altar, just like this, with the butter-lamp -- and then we dance puja, we sing praise, for you have come _home.”_

  
  
  


***

  
  


“It should help with the clacking.” Wool and wax, for his ears. “So you can sit at your loom as long as you like -- all through the night, if you want.” 

“It won’t disturb you? 

Tharkay shook his head. “It’ll help me sleep, knowing you’re there. Hearing it.” He looked down, and folded his hands in his lap. “It still doesn’t seem real, sometimes.” 

“I know the feeling.” Laurence’s voice was hoarse. 

“Well,” said Tharkay with forced joviality. “It worked for Odysseus; why shouldn’t it work for you?” 

Laurence joined the attempt. “But Captain, I thought I was Penelope?” 

A shrug. “You can be both. Or neither. We can be anything we want.” That was the first and only time he reached for Laurence’s hand, and -- 

_\-- doubt thou the stars are fire --_

Laurence jumped like a scared rabbit, and jerked it away. Tharkay withdrew, and did not try again -- he had made the offer; now it was time to make the space for Laurence to come to him if he chose -- when he chose, when he was ready. 

  
  


***

  
  


“Sa-- I mean, Situ, come get the incense; it’s time for puja.” 

“Aji,” said Tenzing. 

“Yes, Rajamati -- I mean, Mijal?” Oh, well, _now_ she was just doing it on purpose.

_“Aji.”_

“Agin-Simma?” 

“Aaaaaaa-jiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.” He’d never admit it aloud, but it was -- nice, hearing this litany of family names. Knowing himself one of many, even if the rest were gone. 

“Ahhhh, yes: Lumanti-Tenzing, my beloved child, my brightest spark.” A smile. “I know who you are.” 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


“Tenzing?” There was a rising note of urgency in it. 

“Down here,” _beloved._

Laurence appeared in the doorway. “I woke and you weren’t in the big room, or out on the terrace.” 

He couldn’t go to him, he could _not,_ because if he did, he’d… Tharkay clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m right here, Will. I’m here. We’re here together, we’re home.” 

“Yes,” said Laurence. “Yes, I --” 

“Don’t apologize,” said Tharkay. “Anyway, we’ve a downstairs room now.” 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


How did she do it? 

Tenzing kept his eyes on his aji’s heels, his mind on his -- _breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

How did she play _as she climbed?_

He had to stop and rest, once they reached the pasture; she left him the flute and fair skipped off to tend the herd. 

“We share them, the other widows and I.”

He’d barely caught his breath before she’d finished and returned.

“There were so many of us who lost children… even those who made it back to the valley had no one to come back to. There was nothing for me in Bhaktapur, not anymore, and Khokana has always been a -- sanctuary, of sorts, for those who are unwelcome elsewhere.” A sigh. “And now there are so few of us left… 

“Come, beloved child.” She snapped her fingers. “The more you practice, the easier it will be to breathe.” 

Surely she didn’t mean for _him_ to… “What do I play?” 

“Anything you want. Improvise.” 

_What?_ “But… how will I know whether it’s right?” 

She raised an eyebrow. “If what comes out is what you wanted to play, it’s right.” 

  
  


***

  
  


In the evenings he would sit by the hearth in the big room, and practice with his new flute while Laurence spun -- and spun, and spun, and spun, and spun. 

“You’re very good at that.” Oh, it was just like Fontainebleau -- only better, better, _so much_ better. 

“My aji taught me, in the mountains; and then I lived as a musician a while, during my Assam assignment -- no, don’t give me that look, my sailor; I’ll remind you that this was right around the time _you_ were defying an Empress, brokering Brazilian abolition, and teaching yourself to make _maps_ out of _thread.”_

Laurence raised an eyebrow. “Mm, of course. And my, what a fine instrument; that’s never _walrus_ ivory, surely.” 

“A name-gift, from the Cailleachan. Yes, as are the rest,” he indicated the harp and drums, “from other local singer-lines.” 

“Ah, yes, your new title -- Temeraire tells me you are the first human so named in over a century?” Ugh -- what an _insufferable_ smirk. 

_“_ Yes, well, _that_ was a process which began while you were making up to Moshueshue and adopting the boys, if I’m not mistaken; and culminated sometime between Ning rescuing us from the tyrant and you challenging him to single combat.” 

“Touché.” 

“No, that’s what _Bonaparte_ said.” 

_Oh,_ what a lovely buttercream smile. 

***

  
  


“Oh, this is awful, just awful. Absolutely terrible. You’re certain to win this one: I have nothing for _any_ kind of pattern, nothing at all.” 

“I hate when you say that,” Tenzing muttered. 

“What was that, bright star?” 

“I _know_ you heard me, Aji.” It was no use protesting. 

“Oh, hmm -- it looks like I can make a move, here -- but just the one; that’s _it,_ that’s all I’ll be able to do.” 

“Augh,” said Tenzing. “Auuuuu _uuggggghhhhhh._ This is how it starts, this is how it always starts.” 

She sucked her teeth. “It’s not good for your character to win _all_ the time, darling child; _somebody_ needs to keep you humble.” 

“Yes, but you could let me win _sometimes.”_

“Pah! Who do you think I am? You’ll win when you’ve earned it, beloved.”

  
  


***

  
  


They tried a game of chess -- just the once. 

It was -- they’d just finished the opening moves -- “See? It’s _boring!”_ \-- and sunk into that particular space of concentration: analyzing possibilities; weighing outcomes; playing out different scenarios based on the pieces’ varying capabilities, and what they each knew of the other’s strategy…

He didn’t know where it began, but a current was rising between them -- like the prickling before a storm, or a high whine on the wind: keen awareness of having sat together before, just like this, _just like this --_ only worse, worse, _so_ much worse, because lives had hung in the balance of their every decision, and they were running out of _time._

“Fuck this,” he said, and upended the chessboard. “I’ll wager I can skip a rock farther across the lake than you.” 

The tension dissipated immediately: Laurence sighed, and looked back at him with one of those lovely smiles. “And which lake would that be, Captain?” 

He shrugged. “Any of ‘em. Let’s go find Temeraire; I’m sure he’s got a favorite by now.” 

  
  


***

  
  


“Your hair is getting long, dear one; shall I braid it for you?” 

He sat at her feet. The comb was soothing against his scalp; her hands were moving through his hair with tenderness, with _love…_

“You had an uncle who was hijra. I’m sure you don’t remember; he was gone well before we left the valley.” 

A sharp yank as she worked through a snarl. 

“She would dress, on feast-days, and dance the stories in the square -- you and I used to make the masks she wore; and Lumanti would sing…”

She gathered his hair at the nape of his neck -- pulled, strong and steady, and began to braid. 

“She was such a beautiful dancer, my Sanil. And then -- well. Your father’s brother apologized for introducing them without explaining it properly, to his friend, but it didn’t make my child any less dead. ” 

She had reached the end. 

“There is darkness beneath the butter lamp, though it brings light to distant places. Never let them douse your fire, beloved child.” A warm hand upon the back of his neck. “But be very, _very_ careful. There,” she flipped the braid to lay over his chest. “Now turn around for me -- oh, you look just like your mother, my baby.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Had it been the exigencies of war, after all? 

Spring had turned to summer, and summer to fall, and color was on the leaves when the thought crept into Tharkay’s head: he needed to face the possibility that Laurence might _never_ be ready. 

This was more than he’d ever thought to dream of -- true friends, fierce advocates, not one but _two_ companions with whom he could voice his every thought and feeling, and feel secure in the knowledge that they would understand without explanation. He was known, and witnessed, and _loved;_ and together they had made a place for all of them to belong, here on this patch of land in the Peaks. 

Yes, it was enough, _more_ than enough, that they were here; and that would never change. 

And if when he woke in the night with 沒有 on his lips he couldn’t stop himself from missing the silk tent in Russia, or the hanging cot on the Allegiance, or -- Heaven forbid -- that crevasse, where he and Laurence might curl around each other and whisper _things_ , things that made his heart crack, with how much he wanted them to be true, well, that couldn’t be helped. 

It was just that after that letter, he had thought perhaps he might permit himself to dream, or hope, or even _want.._. but his cup was full, just the way things were, fuller than he had ever imagined it could be, and he was at peace. 

If this was what Laurence had chosen, he would content himself with it -- and Laurence’s choice it was. Tharkay would not make any further advances, any attempts to alter the relations between them; not when he was quite sensible that they were all living on _his_ estate, and that Temeraire was happy, and that there was nothing that Laurence would not do for Temeraire’s sake. 

And the best part of Laurence’s company had always been their quiet moments together, anyway -- and those were not lost, not in the least. 

  
  


***

  
  


Tenzing won one game in six, these days, and counted himself triumphant when he did. 

This, though -- this one felt different.

“No, Aji, you can’t make that move, remember?” 

“What? Oh, yes, of course -- of course, what was I going to… ah, this one, here’s what I wanted.”

“Aji, that’s -- you just...” But -- oh. _Oh._

...oh. 

  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q) did our favorite coparents ever get their chess game?  
> Tharkay: *flips table* 
> 
> Q) ok why is everyone so fixated on Tharkay’s hair, like why is it such a *thing*?  
> nb***: isitbecauseimblack.mp3  
> Tharkay: or is it because hair is a deeply fundamental part of personal and cultural and gender presentation across every single time and society ever, like it's literally illegal for me NOT to have long hair in China rn, so  
> Samson: ^^  
> Tharkay: also remember how you grabbed that braid-cutting bit from the hayloft chapter straight outta the American Settler’s Handbook to Genocide Against Native Peoples?  
> nb***:  
> nb***:  
> nb***: many things can be true 
> 
> *** 
> 
> The below is addressed to Genericfanatic, Songoftheskies, Sophredrick, T-Rex, CMOTScribbler, acclinis, Skulderian, Peggaboo, Edgedancer, AlyCat150, PersuadedMeIntoIt, FawnofAnxiety, and nimuetheseawitch. 
> 
> Hey y’all, 
> 
> So it turns out this story is my way of processing my emotions, the things happening internally I can’t articulate any other way. It’s where I go inside my head when I need to experience something other than [anxiety]. Which means that even when this fic is done, there will be more -- much more -- to come, because the thought of not having this story to escape into makes me feel like Abed in that one episode of Community, you know which one I’m talking about, when he runs out of episodes of his favorite show? 
> 
> Anyway, lol. I’ll never not be writing, is the point. And YOU are a part of this story -- you’re a part of *my* story, now. I want to thank you for witnessing, and for being here with me. And so to show my gratitude… 
> 
> When the epilogue of this fic is posted, if you leave a comment with a prompt in the form of one (1) question, I will answer it in an upcoming chapter of the next fic or two (working title: Icing of Cakes) (lol not really) (but kind of). 
> 
> Parameters: 
> 
> Anything in canon or The Compass series is fair game -- the questions will turn into Q)s in the authors note of the chapter they inspire 
> 
> I reserve the right to decline (in which case you’ll get another question) -- though I will likely only do so if it’s something that’s already drafted (aka don’t waste a comment asking Do Our Men Switch or Does Laurence Ever Meet Lumanti) or if it’s outside the scope of the fic somehow (unfortunately this is perhaps not the place for the Pemberton/Anahuarque reunion scene we all deserve) 
> 
> Also if we keep the Q)s to the epilogue comments it will help me keep track and avoid repeats, pls, thank you
> 
> Also also PLEASE for love of Temeraire, if you ever wanna read the epilogue, don’t give me your prompt before the epilogue is posted or even hint at it, because I reeeeeeally wanna finish this fic, and I won’t if there are new questions in my head T__T
> 
> Anyway. With gratitude, as always. 
> 
> <3,  
> nb***


	9. Ithaca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for trauma in intimate contexts, please make sure all lies well 
> 
> Sorry-Grateful from Stephen Sondheim’s Company, Original Broadway Cast recording
> 
> Also *I did that thing with the asterisks*

#  **Ithaca ;**

**or,**

**Laurence spills tea**

*******

  
  
  
  
  


It was _exactly_ like map-making -- only _better,_ because clothing existed in _three-dimensional space._

It recalled to Laurence the way his mother had taught him spatial geometry: how two parallel lines could intersect, if they were on a curved surface -- how she’d taken his hand and shown him how the seams of her skirt would come together eventually… 

Or when his grandda had tried to elucidate one of the fundamental navigational principles: why a curved course was shorter than a straight line, sometimes -- _oh,_ how Laurence had _struggled_ with that, because on paper -- in two-dimensional projections -- it made _no sense,_ absolutely _none --_

\-- _come, my dear: let me help you --_

\-- and then his mother had traced his finger over her dress-form, had taken string and cloth and _shown_ him the magic of it: how straight lines could become curves, how curves could change how straight lines acted, how -- 

_\-- women’s work is insupportable --_

Laurence shrugged, avoiding Tharkay’s gaze, and mumbled around the pins in his mouth. “Any sailor can mend a sail, and I like my things to fit _right.”_

And then -- _fuck,_ Tharkay was looking at him in that _way_ he had: that penetrating stare which always seemed to see right through to his secret heart, somehow, and -- “You are _remarkably_ self-sufficient, for a gentleman.” 

He was getting better at this -- at hearing the things Tharkay did not say, underneath the things he did: those lancing truths disguised as humor, or gentle teasing -- and this one: _I find it not insupportable but rather remarkable, that you possess skills a gentleman ought not._

Oh. _Oh._

Laurence removed one of the pins, the better to speak clearly. “I believe that is the highest compliment I have ever received.” 

Tharkay’s smile told him he’d answered back well. “Right, well -- something tells me you’re not finished, are you.” An invitation: and now Laurence knew he could, could _share_ himself, could -- _show_ those parts of himself, if he wanted. If he dared. 

“Not quite.” It had been a relief to finally get his hands on this travesty of a coat: it was clearly secondhand; had the Corps not even deigned to issue Tharkay his own uniform? Had Laurence any remaining standing at all he would have written to Jane immediately, but -- well, he hadn’t any standing, anymore, either with the Corps or Jane… 

But this was better, anyway. 

“Uh-oh. I know that look, my tailor; I’m about to stand still another hour, aren’t I?” 

_My tailor._ Affection: a fond _claiming,_ rather than recrimination for doing low-class work -- _women’s_ work. Acceptance, inherent in it: _I’m about to stand still another hour --_ oh, _how_ had he ever thought Tenzing Tharkay cold, or inscrutable? 

“See this seam, here?” He traced the curve of a hip. “The Corps’ negligence provides an opportunity.” 

“Negligence?” 

“It’s not your coat, is it? Of course it is, I mean, but -- it’s not fit to measure.” 

Tharkay shook his head. “It was Barnesby’s. There wasn’t time to make one.” 

“There’s been ample time since.” Laurence was deep in thought. “It fits well enough across the shoulders, but it fair hangs off you; and you’re rather longer in the leg -- the length is right, but the proportions are all wrong. If we nip it in properly at the waist, here, and add darts above and below --” 

“Darts? Not --” 

“No, it’s -- they’re seams, to make straight lines curve.”

“Ah.” A sweep of those luxurious black lashes, a shy dimple appearing at the corner of his mouth… “I never knew the English word.” A rare piece of himself, precious, offered to show Laurence he was not alone: _I know these things, too, just… not in England._

“It will flare out rather wide at the hem, I’m afraid; but the silhouette -- well, the lines of it should ease the drawing of your sword, and it will --” _look lovely on you,_ he’d been about to say, but, “-- fit _right.”_

Sometimes he was awarded one of those brilliant smiles without knowing _why,_ or what he’d done to earn it; they never failed to warm him through. “And you’ll stitch your initials into the lining somewhere, of course.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Why, isn’t that what master dressmakers do?” Those black eyes sparkled, and -- 

*“Darby, sir, but Janus they call me --”* and -- _oh,_ he felt _just_ like himself: for Tharkay was smirking back at him, raising an eyebrow and playing this game -- taking their raw nerves, all the jangling anxiety over the mission at hand; and diverting it toward something harmless, something _familiar_ \-- and then Tharkay was looking to Janus, and Janus looked between them both; and Laurence felt Tharkay’s elbow jostle his ribs even as he flushed with comprehension. 

Yes, oh yes, _this_ was who he wanted guarding his back, fighting by his side, leading him into battle -- for in a single deft wingbeat Tharkay had used Janus’s clumsy innuendo to unite the three of them in understanding: shared knowledge of what happened at war, away from England. 

Shared knowledge of what they were about to do. 

*“Very good, Janus,” Laurence said, and gave him a pistol. They put out the one lantern, swinging by the door, and at a nod from Tharkay the three of them went up the ladder into the loft one after another, swift on bare feet. 

The men lay breathing the regular sighs of exhausted sleep, half-sunk into broken-open bales of hay, with their sabers and pistols beside them: one after another Laurence woke them, a folded pad of leather over their mouths, Janus to pin their heels and Tharkay with a pistol steady in the man’s face, and they were turned over and trussed quickly with straps, heaved up onto the stack of bales. 

The fourth man opened his eyes too soon, and managed to drum his heels as they reached for him; the other two roused sluggishly and groped for the missing swords and pistols, which Tharkay had already collected away, three of them thrust into his waistband in piratical fashion. It was a short but brutal struggle, even numbers and the necessity of silence driving them: Laurence went for his knife and grimly put it into the unarmed man’s throat as the Frenchman tried to wrestle himself up from the ground. The man sank back limply, staring up empty and blind at the ceiling, blood spilling from his neck to soak into the straw. Laurence took up a sword and killed another, quickly, while Janus held him. Tharkay dispatched the last. 

The horses below were stamping again, whickering at the smell of blood. “Are you all right?” Woolvey whispered, putting his head up into the loft, and stopped with his mouth a little open. 

“Yes,” Laurence said shortly, his heart still hammering. “Go below, and keep that fellow at the door.” Whether because of some note in his voice, or the scene, Woolvey made no protest but obeyed in silence, vanishing again below. 

The trussed men fought and kicked as they were turned over and stripped of their coats and cuirasses, and one of them made a low moan behind the gag as his eyes fell on the dead men lying straight. Friends, or brothers, perhaps; Laurence closed his mind to the thought. 

Or tried: Woolvey’s shocked expression lingered. The hard use, the necessary brutality of the service, were not of the same world as England, as home; and it was that division which might let a man be a gentleman and a practical soldier both. But now he was in the stables of Kensington Palace with his palms wet with blood, on a spy’s errand: yet as necessary as any military action. No-one could deny its necessity. Let it only take place in Paris, or Istanbul, or China, and Woolvey would read of it in the papers and applaud, though the act were the same, or bloodier. But it did not belong here, a black rotten canker taken root in the warm sour horse-smell of the stable attic, above the peaceful gardens.* 

And then they were putting on the dead men's uniforms, and walking into a glittering castle in the clouds -- and then he woke, and Tharkay was saying _memory --_ but it was all right, it was _all right_ because Tharkay had _been_ there, Tharkay had _chosen_ to be there with him, back then, and he was here _now:_ he was _still_ _here,_ helping him find his way -- 

And then Laurence woke, and he was alone. 

***

It _hurt._

“No, it’s -- it’s nothing, it’s quite all right.” 

“Will.” _Tenzing._ “Don’t do that. You don’t have to pretend, here. It’s -- it’s the plates, isn’t it.” Shieldmate: dove behind them _together._ Thank -- 

“The -- clinking. High, piercing noises, they hurt.” He was looking at Tenzing, he was _certain_ he was looking at Tenzing; so _why_ did Tenzing keep sliding sideways -- why couldn’t he _see_ him? 

“Well, that’s easily enough fixed. No, don’t argue, my sailor; it’s my honor to relieve your pain even the meanest amount.” 

Laughter escaped Laurence like shrapnel from a cannon-blast: he could not remember when last he had been without pain; neither the last time anyone had spoken to him of _easing_ it. And the way he _said_ it, just -- just _spoke of it:_ light tones, cut-glass consonants, and unrelenting grace. _It’s my honor to relieve your pain…_

The laughter had already become tears. Were they blurring his vision? Or had it already been thus, doubling and doubling again? 

“Will. Will.” Why couldn’t he make him stay _still?_ “Follow my finger.” 

_I would follow you anywhere --_ but he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t make his eyes focus, he couldn’t make himself track Tenzing’s finger: he couldn’t even _follow_ properly -- 

“Oh, my brilliant sailor.” A hand to his forehead, moving through his hair. “You mask it with decorum, as we do, but you haven’t been well for a very long while, have you.” 

“Great need -- how does you know?” Were those the right words? 

“I know you,” and there was -- a pause: something he didn’t say, perhaps -- “I’m here. You -- you may rest now, dear one. You’ve landed, you’ve made it, we are here together, we’re _home._ Lay down your burdens, Odysseus: I am here with you, I will take care of you. I will build this world to see you safe and well, as you deserve, as you have _always_ deserved. It’s all right, you’re all right; rest now; you can _rest._ Please, Will, let yourself rest.” 

So _weepy._

  
  


***

  
  


“Cease this caterwauling immediately; a young gentleman does not _weep,_ William. The matter is quite simple: if it is not right, it is _wrong._ ” His father’s voice cracked over him, cold like a whip. 

“I -- I’m,” _I’m trying, Father, I’m trying…_ but he looked up into blue, blue eyes and _could not stop._

“This weakness will be a black stain upon your honor, my boy; and if you cannot learn to be a gentleman then I’m afraid you’re of no use to me as a son. Should that be the case -- well, off to the sea with you, then, and good riddance.” 

And then Laurence woke, and he did not need to ask whether it was dream or memory -- but it was all right, because Tharkay was here with him, kissing his temple and cradling him close to her breast and murmuring _darling Will, I want you to be whatever you want you to be: you are worth so much more than your gentleman's honor, to those who love you_ _\--_

And then Laurence woke, and he was alone. 

***

The spindle was dropping, but he couldn’t make his eyes follow. 

Did it ever get dizzy? It spun, and spun, and spun, and spun, and spun -- just like a clock, around and around, and always perfectly balanced... until it fell to pieces on the floor, that is: all that yarn unspooling into nothingness because he _couldn't make his eyes follow,_ he couldn't make his _hands_ work -- he _wasn't_ _good enough_ to do this. 

Things had seemed _so_ clear, before. War had a way of -- of _shrinking_ gaps. Of forcing one to realizations which could only have ever been made under dire extremity: to wit, Laurence was perfectly capable of laying down everything in service to the man he -- to his -- well, to Tharkay, when it was Tharkay’s life at stake. 

But here, when it was just the two of them, and no exigency whatsoever -- only the rolling British countryside, and quiet British mornings… 

Seeing the gap and _crossing_ it, Laurence was finding out, were two very different endeavors. 

***

High above flew Mokhachane, the bronze and purple she-dragon who was king of the Tswana, and Moshueshue was there, standing before him -- but it was Tharkay, but it _was_ Moshueshue, but -- but it was _Tharkay:_ muscled brown chest bare except for his black leather knife-harness, hair flowing loose.

“Draw the map.” 

Laurence opened his mouth to say _yes, yes, please yes,_ but what came out instead was: *“I beg your pardon; I will not.”*

Tharkay-Moshueshue walked around the table, and as he approached Laurence could see that he was stroking himself, unhurriedly, over black leather trousers. “You chose this, didn’t you? You _want_ this.” 

Laurence tried to say _I do, I want it, please, yes,_ but -- *“Having been taken prisoner, in what I must consider an act of war, I must refuse under these conditions to answer any questions whatsoever.”*

*“Captain, you will be flogged,”* said Moshueshue-Tharkay, and reached for Laurence’s hand. “There is no reason to punish yourself. Please, draw the map.” 

*“Brutality and further ill-usage will in no wise alter my determination,” Laurence said, “and I beg your pardon, ma’am, if you are forced to witness it.”* He jerked his hand away, *and then his arms were seized, on either side; his coat cut away down the middle of the back, also his shirt, and he was forced to his knees with the rags still hanging from his shoulders.*

_Please -- please, please --_

*He fixed his gaze out through the archway, which opened upon the loveliest prospect he had ever beheld: the sun still low in the sky beyond the falls, newly risen, and glowing small and molten through the gusting clouds of mist.* 

_Oh, please -- dawn, O dawn, O Lady Iris of the rainbow and mist, messenger of truth, please -- help me find my way, bring me strength, show me how --_

*The torrents of water churned to pure white were roaring steadily over the verge, the tangled branches of trees yearning out towards the water, from the canyon-walls where they had taken root; the gauzy insubstantial suggestion of a rainbow, which refused to be seen head-on, but clung to the edge of his vision. His shoulders ached as they drew him taut.*

 _Please, O goddess of sea and sky, of wind and ocean depths -- come to me, I beg thee, please, help me, help --_ and then Tharkay-Moshueshue approached; all gleaming brown skin and taut black leather, phallus still bulging in his trousers and a whip in his hand. 

“You deserve this,” he said, and began to stroke. 

Laurence cried out, a cry of not-quite-anguish -- *he had seen men take a dozen lashes without a sound; foremast hands, under his very own orders, he reminded himself after every stroke: by the tenth, however, the argument lost its potency, and he was only trying raggedly to endure, in an animal sort of way, the pain which no longer ceased between the strokes but only ebbed and flowed.*

 _\-- hard use, necessary brutality_ \-- _yes, yes, I deserve this, I deserve it -- the rotten blackness taken root inside me: punish me for it, I need to be punished, please, help me find --_

*Laurence was not precisely insensible when another dragon returned him to the cave, only very far away, his throat raw and stretched to ruin. He was grateful for it, or would have been; otherwise he would have screamed again when they put hands on him, to lift him face-downwards onto the ground, even though they did not touch his torn back: every nerve had been woken to pain. Sleep did not come, only a kind of murky absence of thought, which darkened by degrees into unconsciousness. Water was put to his lips.*

*“Thank Heaven,”* he said, and looked up into starry black eyes -- 

And then Laurence woke, alone. 

***

Down, up, spin. _Breathe._

Just like a clock. 

Down, up, spin. _Breathe. Can you focus?_ He could do it, just. He could _see it,_ and the movements were coming more and more easily now: natural, almost meditative. 

Down, up, spin. Just like a clock. 

“There’s a set of adjoining rooms down the hall; I thought those might work well for the boys. And -- there’s one more suite, on this floor, a little removed from the others…” 

“Mm.” Laurence’s eyes successfully followed the spindle-wheel as he fed the rolag onto the shaft: down, up, spin -- down, up, spin -- and better yet, he could follow _what Tharkay was saying._ “A landing-place, for Gong Su.” 

“Yes,” said Tharkay. “Yes, exactly.” 

***

The city was burning. 

The city was burning, and he was standing by the window, and he was looking at the door, and he _could not open it._

He could not even cross the room, but -- but it was all right, because Tharkay was coming. Tharkay would open the door, Tharkay would open the door and ask him to come out of his prison, Tharkay would open the door and _free him --_ flames were licking at the corners of the floor, then up the walls, and the ship was coming apart around his ears -- men were screaming and dying, and Laurence was shackled to the sinking ship, and Temeraire’s egg was rolling toward the open hatch… 

And then -- _yes, thank Heaven, thank Heaven --_ Tharkay was there, flying in low over the sea on iridescent feathers: brilliant black rainbows; and he scooped up the egg, cradling it to his breast -- and then he swooped down to hover above Laurence, many-jointed wings suspending him aloft, and reached for his hand. *“Will you come with me? I believe there is still danger of fire.”* 

But Laurence jerked his hand away, unable to speak, and motioned to his chains; Tharkay shook his head and frowned. “You already had the key, when I gave it to you. I gave it to you _because_ you already had it.” 

But he could not do it -- could not free himself, wasn’t strong enough or brave enough or -- or _enough,_ so he sank and he sank and sank into deep crushing oblivion, and -- and then he woke, and -- “Fire, and a sinking ship.” 

Strong arms, smooth stays, warm heart. “Memory. The _Goliath,_ or the _Allegiance.”_

“All those men.” Darkness, safety. “All those _lives.”_

“Yes.” It was -- _so_ awful, and -- and nothing could make it any better, but he could bear it, with Tharkay here -- he could bear _anything_ so long as Tharkay was here, knowing him and _witnessing_ and -- and _holding_ him, with tenderness and care -- 

And then Laurence woke, and he was alone. 

***

“Well,” said Tharkay with forced joviality. “It worked for Odysseus; why shouldn’t it work for you?” 

Laurence joined the attempt. “But Captain, I thought I was Penelope?” 

A shrug. “You can be both. Or neither. We can be anything we want.”

And then Tharkay, he -- he -- he _reached_ for him, reached for his _hand,_ and it was not a dream, it was _not a dream --_

_\-- a black stain upon your honor --_

Laurence jerked his hand away. His heart was like to beat out of his chest; how was it that he had faced death and worse, without flinching, but _this,_ of all things, _terrified_ him? 

By the time he got his breath back, Tharkay had already withdrawn. 

_\-- if it is not right, it is wrong --_

But later that night… 

\-- _you are worth so much more_ _\--_

Later that night, Laurence spun the yarn the other way -- _counter-_ clockwise, unlucky widdershins, left _-_ wise -- just to see what would happen. 

***

*“I believe we understand one another, Captain; we will leave their correction to you, then, and I trust you will ensure no similar incident occurs: gentleness shown once is mercy, shown twice is folly.”*

Mustafa threw someone to the ground, bound at the wrists, and -- and Laurence had a whip in his hand: he could feel the leather against his palm, braided and supple. There was a whip in his hand, and Tharkay was being dragged to their feet, across the tiled floor, and then they had been tied to the frame. 

*“But Laurence, Laurence,” Temeraire said into complete silence, the only one who would have dared intercede. “Mustafa and those guards have gone, you need not flog them.”* 

\-- _you have twice now --_

*“They deserted their post and willfully risked all the success of our enterprise, all for the satisfaction of the most base and carnal impulses,” Laurence said flatly. “No; do not speak further in their defense, Temeraire: any court-martial would hang them for it, and high spirits make no excuse; they knew better.”* 

*“So shining an example must vanquish any argument,” said Tharkay through bloodied lips, looking up at Laurence, “and indeed I should be ashamed to be the cause of any disillusionment.”* 

*“Very well,” Laurence said;* and began. 

Blood: on Tharkay’s back, on the mosaic tiles, on Laurence’s hands. Tharkay’s blood, drawn by Laurence _himself,_ in recrimination for -- for a harmless flirtation, something he _himself_ might have -- no. _No._

That putrid darkness was not within him, it wasn’t, it _wasn’t --_ or if it was, as it had been shown to be inside Tharkay, it needed to be _stamped out entirely._

*A terrible silence fell, broken only by the crack of the descending lash, the gasps and cries growing slowly fainter, the count going on and on with their body slackening in the frame, hanging heavy from their wrists and dripping thin trickles of blood.* He did not want to do this. He did not _want_ to lash them, he did _not,_ but they had left him no choice: his Empire _required_ it of him… 

And then it was done. It was _done,_ it was _gone,_ he had beaten the darkness out. 

A tap at his shoulder -- he turned and looked into eyes like jet, hard and unflinching. *Laurence stared, drew in a sharp breath, then with controlled fury said, “Well, sir, and do you return? I wonder you should show your face here again.” 

Tharkay said, “I hope my absence has not been too great an inconvenience,” with calm impudence. 

“Only of too short duration,” Laurence said. “Take your money and your things and get out of my sight, and I wish you may go to the devil.” 

“Well,” Tharkay said, after a moment, “if you have no further need of my services, I suppose I may as well be on my way.”*

And then Laurence woke, alone. 

***

The widdershins yarn had a different feel to it -- looser, somehow, as if the wool coiled tighter spun clockwise. The opposite directions created yarn of two distinct tensile strengths, which was interesting; for why should the direction of spin change how the fibers cohered? 

Surely there was a way to measure the difference, using the appropriate loom-weights. 

***

“This pleasure is _yours,_ Will; do not let them take it from you.” 

Hammond’s eyes, icy blue, were on them both. 

*“No, 沒有必要,”* said Laurence to Tharkay, and then looked to Hammond. *“I have killed men in colder weather than this.”* And he counted to five twice, and then he turned -- 

*“Laurence, you _are_ a traitor.”* 

\-- and shot Tharkay in the chest. 

***

There _was_ a way. 

There was a way to measure the difference, which meant that there was a way to -- to make it a _pattern,_ to weave his differently spun yarns in such a way that they pulled on each other, once finished; into _curves,_ into a _specific_ curve, even, if he could figure out the right proportions -- if he could write an equation to describe… 

_But what if I’m bad at it?_ said Laurence to the Tenzing in his head, who rolled his eyes in exasperation. 

_You are a master cartographer, Laurence; surely you have some skill; and even if you are, so what? It’s good for one’s character, to be a novice at something…_

His hand fell to a sheet of paper. 

“It’s good to see you scribbling, my sailor,” said Tharkay from across the table, some time later. 

  
  


***

  
  


“One.” Those clever fingers snapped so _easily,_ like twigs in his hands. “Two, three.” Tharkay's scream rent the air. “Four. Five.” 

*“Laurence, what are you doing?”* 

“One, two, three, four --” 

***

Warp and weft, yes -- 

_\-- every Apollo his Diana --_

\-- or y and x axes: longitude and latitude, seen another way. 

***

They were flying with Temeraire. A crevasse stretched below, cold and blue. 

Tharkay reached for his hand, and -- and Laurence jerked it away, but the movement took him off Temeraire’s back, for -- dangling harness-lines, and silk unfurling as Tharkay reached and reached and _reached_ for him and Laurence _could not make himself reach back…_

He could see Temeraire’s wings above: the black wings of safety, of _home;_ he looked up and up and up as he fell down, down, down into frigid white and colder blue… 

And then Laurence woke, and he was clinging to Tharkay’s arm as Tharkay scrambled into him on the ledge -- “T- Tharkay. Tharkay, are you all right?” 

“Say it.”

*“I cannot see my way to it,”* said Laurence, and watched Tharkay’s head jerk back. 

Color began to leach from his face: the rich brown of his skin, the warmth his of plum-dark lips; it was all bleeding from him, leaving him colder and colder -- and Laurence tried to speak but could _not,_ he could not _remember_ \-- _you already had my name, when I gave it to you --_

“Say it, Will.” 

He knew, he knew, he _knew_ it was there, somewhere inside himself -- but he _could not make himself say it,_ he couldn’t _find_ it; so Laurence watched, horrified, as Tharkay’s face bleached fairer and fairer still until he was nothing but icy porcelain and blue lips and staring eyes: the white of frozen death. 

And then he woke, alone, and said “Tenzing,” just to check, and was relieved to find that it _had_ been a dream, after all. 

He hurried from his bed to the big room -- but the big room was empty, as was the terrace, so he chanced to knock on Tharkay’s door. “Tenzing, may I come in?” Silence. “Tenzing?” More silence… 

No. No, no, nononono -- he pinched himself, but he was _awake,_ he was awake and he was _here,_ in the house, it was real, it _was,_ so where was -- “Tenzing?!” 

“Down here,” came the answer from somewhere on the first floor, and Laurence’s heart began to beat once more.

***

He raised an eyebrow. “Touché.” 

“No, that’s what _Bonaparte_ said.” 

The smile pulled at the corners of his mouth of its own accord -- grew almost into a laugh. 

“When I first arrived to the mountains, after my father's family cast me out and Maden sent me on my way, I could barely breathe,” said Tharkay quietly, and Laurence’s mirth disappeared. “The thin air, you know. And though the valley was my home, it had been a decade and more since I’d been back. I’d tried to leave it all behind, in an effort to -- but they were never going to anyway, it was all a lie; and in the end I’d tried so hard to become what they wanted me to be that I didn’t know who I was, if I wasn’t my father’s son. If I wasn’t a gentleman.” 

Shadows from the firelight danced across his hands; he could not meet Tharkay’s eyes, he could not, he could _not --_

“I couldn’t even _speak_ to her, at first. I had buried my mother tongue, _lost_ it, I -- my aji, who had _carried_ me -- but she, she loved me for myself, just as I was. For the person I truly was, not what they’d tried to make me into.” 

_So_ weepy. 

“By the time she died a year or so later, I could play her flute the whole way up to the pastures, and the mountains felt like home again.” 

“How --” Laurence cleared his throat, and somehow found the strength to raise his eyes. “How did you know?” 

Tharkay folded his hands in his lap, one over the other. “My dreams changed.” 

***

“Do not burden me with your absolution on _that_ score, of all things” _\--_ and his head jerked back -- _Laurence, you are a traitor --_ and he tried to pull away, but Tharkay’s eyes were _on him,_ and they were _holding him_ there, just -- _Laurence, what are you doing? --_ just there, boring right into him, right _through_ him, and he could do nothing but writhe as the truth _took_ him -- he closed his eyes, drowning in it -- 

But he did not lose himself, he did not lose himself because as he bowed his head Tharkay’s hands tightened still more; and -- and -- and oh, _ohhh,_ Tharkay was not _angry,_ no -- he was not _blaming him;_ he -- he was just -- Tharkay had known, he had _known,_ and he had _chosen to come_ just the same _\--_ Laurence had been, had been -- _hurting_ him, all this time; and Tharkay had nonetheless come and _saved_ him: had rescued him from himself, from his own -- inadequacies; limitations; failings, and for some reason had _chosen --_ oh, what had he done, what had he done, what had he ever done to deserve these hands, holding his, here on this ship? 

Discomfort, expansion, acceptance: he would never know. It did not matter; in the end, he could only strive to make himself worthy of it. 

_\-- very well --_

He raised his head. “What must I do?” 

Those _eyes,_ terrible and true. _“Live.”_

What? 

Laurence suddenly felt seasick, somehow; or else dizzy; or else deep in his cups. No, that could not be it -- it couldn’t, it -- he looked up into that pitiless gaze and could not say _please, I need…_

Lashes, feathering black and soft against a smooth brown cheek; and brows drawing together like winged shadows -- breath, exhaled through soft lips, and then -- oh, _oh --_

\-- oh, _fuck,_ Tharkay opened his eyes, his _eyes:_ awful and tender and _revealing_ to Laurence the raw and terrible truths which lay behind all those burnished shields, and -- and _seeing Laurence,_ spearing into him and -- and -- 

Unyielding hands gripped his hair and tilted his head back; and he could do naught but stare up into that fathomless gaze, caught in it, as Tharkay forced two fingers between his lips and said “The fault is not with you, do you hear me --” 

\-- _please, please, show me, I need --_

\-- and then he woke, and Tharkay was saying _do not apologize for this,_ and then he was saying _yes? --_

_\-- yes, oh, oh yes, oh please yes --_

\-- and then he woke and asked _do I dream still?_ and Tenzing was saying _if it is a dream, then we are here together,_ and then he was saying _yes? --_

_\-- yes, please stay, stay with me: help me take it, make me do it, keep me here --_

\-- and then he woke, alone. 

  
  


***

The door was closed. 

_\-- it’ll help me sleep --_

If neither of them was asleep, surely there was no reason to -- but how might, how might -- how -- well, it was _simple,_ really, but -- but could he do it? 

\-- _if it is not right --_ but there was nothing wrong with widdershins yarn, nothing at all, and if that were true… 

Laurence got up from his loom, heart pounding, and cracked the door to his sitting-room open, just -- just a hairline fracture, but it was enough, for soon after came a cautious tap.

It slid seamlessly into their routine, these late-night offers of company. Laurence would sit at his loom with wax and wool stuffed into his ears, and Tharkay would come in with a cup of bhang in one hand and his flute in the other; or else a mug of coffee and tax rolls, or a whiskey-tumbler and a book -- or any combination thereof, really -- to install himself in front of the fire, and sit up until the wee hours while Laurence kept time on the loom. 

Tharkay fell asleep on the chaise, more than once -- eyes moving fretfully beneath his lids, twitching as if caught in a nightmare. Comforting him was the kind of thing Laurence would have done as easily as breathing, had they been -- _anywhere_ but England. But here, now, between these four walls, he could do naught but sit there, and -- _go to him. He’s there, he’s right there -- go to him, reach out to him, give him your hand --_

\-- one more row. He would keep weaving, and when he was done with this row -- 

\-- _it’ll help me sleep --_

\-- one more, one more row, one more row. 

  
  


***

There was a song in the night. 

There was a song and Laurence woke to it and Tharkay was there, offering grace with an extended hand -- and Laurence looked, and looked, and looked at him, into those sky-black eyes, and said, “Well, I am set in my ways, but as you are willing to take my hand, Captain, I suppose I would be churlish to refuse to offer it.” 

And then he reached back. 

Tharkay pulled him up, up and over the wall to drop down into a garden of blooming jasmine -- and then Laurence was following that braid -- following him through the palace and down into the baths, into the warmth, dark and steaming -- and then Tharkay disappeared behind a tent-flap, and Laurence raced to follow: for he knew that he would _fall,_ would fall without Laurence there to catch him, because Patroclus had not survived the war -- 

“Tenzing.” 

\-- his hands were sliding over blood-red silk, fingers carding through waves of hair like the wine-dark sea, and then he was -- he would soon touch warm brown skin, if -- 

“Tenzing, may I?”

\-- _please, please --_

\-- and then Laurence woke, alone. 

  
  


***

  
  


“Do you mean to tell me, Will,” said Granby slowly, “that you have somehow not yet managed to consummate the marriage we have all watched bloom directly under our noses for nigh on a decade now?” 

Laurence flinched, and knocked his cup so hard it fell and shattered on the floor of the downstairs room. 

He had invited Granby for tea. He did not know who else he might ask, under the circumstances, or what sort of guidance he was looking for, precisely; it was only that he did not quite know how to… how to do whatever it was he might do, with Tharkay, or even how to articulate what he wanted in the first place -- 

He had been relieved, at first, that it hadn’t happened -- had not been sure he could stomach any more upheaval, when all he wanted to do was sleep and spin and re-read the same two books to Temeraire, now that they three had finally landed together in safety, in _safety_ … and he knew Tenzing understood -- knew it from the banked fires in his gaze, when their eyes chanced to meet over the breakfast tray or walking through a grove of trees, knew that it was only a matter of time until they were both well enough… 

It was just that -- over these last months, those embers had smoldered away into a cold sort of wariness, or tension, and then one day Tharkay had come to breakfast with nothing but warm friendship in his eyes. 

It was as if he’d been gutted. 

Laurence had talked round and round the situation all through the first cup of tea, making some attempt at preserving dignity by approximating his meaning with utmost delicacy and sensibility, and it was not until the second that he had managed to make his meaning clear. 

“But, but -- he has said nothing, made no indication --” _Not true,_ his mind whispered. _He reached for your hand, once, months ago. He offered you his, and you jerked yours away…_

“Well he wouldn’t, would he, seeing as you’re _living in his house on his sufferance,”_ said Granby as if speaking to a very young child. “It would stink of coercion for him to approach a guest, you know this, but it’s a certain bet that he would receive your advances most gladly.”

\-- and Laurence remembered a flight over the ocean, and the two of them together explaining to Temeraire how such engagements must always be commenced on equal terms; and the brown-gold of Tharkay’s skin against the blue sky, and the shape of his plush lips curled into a smile as he said _call me Tenzing_ … 

_He offered, months ago, and you jerked your hand away. You rejected him…_

“There is no reason to -- to think that he should --” 

“That’s poppycock, Will, and you know it.” 

“But,” Laurence pled, “but how can you be so _sure_ , John?” 

_\-- never doubt this --_

Granby fair exploded.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you wretched creature, I was _there!_ I have been here _the whole time!_ I was there when you _met,_ remember? And in the desert, and Istanbul, and in Prussia -- and on the Allegiance, let us not forget -- and then that _other_ fucking desert, and ohhhhh, _all the way across the Pacific,_ Laurence: you _told us he hung the stars;_ he may as well have led us from one lava rock to the next himself -- and then _Xi’an,_ oh, for God’s sake, man! 

“I _saw_ you, Will! It all happened right there before me: Peking, and that crevasse -- I would not sit in a crevasse with you for any length of time, Lord Admiral, pretty though you are, and -- Christ, I watched you in Grenoble _with my own eyes!_ I never thought to feel such kinship with a Frenchman, but that old Admiral Frog and I felt quite out of place at that breakfast, that much I can tell you.” 

“But that was _there,_ John, I -- I, _”_ he felt wild, desperate -- unable to articulate even what he could not articulate, as if he were losing his mind. “I do not know…” 

Granby’s expression gentled a bit, and he sighed. “It’s different, in Britain, yes -- it’s harder. Much harder, isn’t it.” 

Laurence nodded. 

“You’re trying to do it all properly, Laurence, the way you always do -- and that’s all well and good, but there is no ‘proper’ way to go about this, because it _isn’t proper._ You can’t rely on those lordly manners of yours, this time. You’ve just got to make a go of it.” 

\-- _though not even there did his troubles cease --_

He sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” 

“Stop being such a damned gentleman, Will: that’s my advice; and God help you if you, vanquisher of tyrants and savior of Britain and dragonkind alike, cannot find within your heart the courage to air out that sealskin of yours and approach a man you’ve loved ‘round the world thrice over.” Granby sipped his tea with obnoxious daintiness. “You cowardly fucking toff.” 

Laurence was silent, for a bell had resounded in his core: _a man you’ve loved --_ yes, _this_ was why he’d needed Granby here; there was nobody else in Britain who would speak those words aloud to him. 

Well, besides -- but obviously -- ha, if only. 

But Granby had -- Granby had _already_ spoken of these things to him, more than once; Granby and Little had lived as themselves both abroad _and_ in Britain; and Granby _knew_ him, knew them _both…_

And then -- “I beg your pardon: sealskin?” 

“You know, because…” A frown. “Blast it, are you _really_ asking me about the meaning of ‘selkie,’ you wretched genius?’” 

“I’ve heard it as a term, of course,” said Laurence slowly, “but I don’t see how it applies in this instance.” 

“Laurence.” Granby’s voice was very, very patient. “Why don’t you tell me what you think the word ‘selkie’ describes.” 

“Well, it’s a name for sailors, obviously.” Laurence was still confused. “Because we can only survive on dry land for so long before slipping away to become our true selves at sea. Why -- is that not what it means?” 

“D’you know, Will.” That smile seemed _inordinately_ fond, for some reason. “That’s exactly what it means.”

  
  


***

  
  


“This is the only key.” Tharkay pressed a piece of charcoal, shining like jet and glittering with stars, into his hand. “You have been navigating since you were a boy, Will, and I have seen your maps: I have every confidence that you are up to the task.” 

The blank page was still _so_ scary, but -- but it was -- “What if I’m bad?” 

It was all right, because _Tenzing_ was here.

“You’re not, Will. I promise.” 

  
  


***

  
  


“Laurence, it’s worse than we could ever have imagined,” said Temeraire. “Not only did we miss the Naming, apparently we are Tharkay’s _t’hy’la,_ which I’m told carries certain responsibilities --” 

“I beg your pardon -- _t’hy’la?”_

“Yes -- I suppose the English would would be… erm, soul-bound, perhaps? It is the bond upon which packs are formed, between Singers and their Principals, and it’s the most sacred of all, and we are Tharkay’s Principals and we _didn’t get him anything,_ Laurence, we’ve given him _nothing.”_

“I am certain he would have told us, should there be duties required of us on his behalf.” _Would_ he, though? 

“Oh, Laurence, you are so _utterly_ naive, sometimes.” Had that _really_ been necessary? “Oooh, perhaps -- oh, but his cannot be nicer than _yours,_ which only means I must think of something appropriate for the both of you… hm.” 

Trust Temeraire to turn this into an opportunity to bestow a _pair_ of gifts. 

“Perhaps new flying-coats, with those seams you like? The ones you kept talking about, on Tharkay’s -- Gong Su and I made sure your coat from the Emperor had ones just the same, in China, and I must say the two of you looked _very_ dashing in your matched coats, very dashing indeed.”

“We are well-equipped on flying-gear, I should think; and our days are spent more often at home, of late.” 

“Hm -- well, perhaps a staying-at-home coat, then? If there is such a thing?” 

“I am sure you will think of something befitting our very great esteem.” A gift. An _offering._

“Yes, well, I’m not sure there are enough jewels in the world to properly convey the depth of my love, but I shall try, Laurence; and I recommend you do the same, though I suppose I cannot make it an order.” 

“Please, Temeraire,” said Laurence absently. “No jewels.” 

“Let us see,” said Temeraire.   
  


***

  
  


Drawing _was_ a bit like map-making, in a sort of way. 

When Laurence had made his fateful observation -- _I wish I had half your skill and artistic eye --_ it had been because he’d looked over to see Tharkay dragging himself upright, a collection of elbows and shoulder-blades and jutting collarbones, and the thought had floated across his mind: _how like a dryad…_

And then, when he’d begun to -- _find the gestures, the overall shape --_ Laurence had thought no, not a dryad but Artemis: coiled tension, taut like a bowstring; valor held together by threaded moonlight. 

But it was not until after Tharkay had fallen asleep that it clicked: it _was_ like map-making -- for the exercise of drawing required that Laurence translate his world from three dimensions down to two, and _that,_ well. He knew how to do _that._

In cartography one did not attempt to capture terrain in its exact form; rather the pertinent features, the information one wished to convey: a thousand different maps might be drawn of the same patch of land, every single one of them true. 

\-- _choose which lines you wish to assign weight and value --_ oh. _Oh._

Not Artemis, then, but Gaea herself, yes -- rich brown earth and rivers of black silk, peaked mountains and curving horizons. He had drawn _land_ before, in a way -- knew how to represent differences in elevation, for instance, which might be called shadow, here -- and he _had_ mapped every line of Tharkay’s body already, with his hands -- knew all of the contours, his ridges and valleys -- 

Ohhhhhh, oh, _yes,_ it was _just_ like map-making -- only better, because he was making not an abstract representation of earth and water but a _picture of a goddess._

And then Gaea-Tharkay shifted, on the page -- came to life, rolled over and stretched, and turned to face him. “Will you put that away, and get changed?” she said with a brilliant black smile. “Only I find it much easier to offer you relief when you’re wearing your true skin, rather than your uniform.” 

  
  


***

  
  


His doubt increased with each pass of the shuttle. 

This pattern -- this landscape -- it was entirely new, entirely unfamiliar. He had no frame of reference for the topography, the features; he did not even know what the terrain was _supposed_ to look like: how was he meant to detect the trail of a single thread, pulling in a new direction -- with no sign of any path whatsoever? 

Laurence knew these things to be true: Tenzing wanted him, Tenzing would never do anything to harm him, Tenzing _loved_ him -- Tenzing had _given him the loom._

And he likewise knew with utter certainty that if he dared approach, if he offered himself up, Tenzing would -- would _hurt him,_ just as the others had -- he would laugh and say _make me a better showing --_ he would leave him sobbing alone on the rug, pathetic and exposed, his heart dashed to pieces in his hands. 

And Laurence breathed, just as -- just as they had done, together, countless times -- and he held on, he did, he _tried_ to hold on through the storm; through the sickness and discomfort of the tossing and pitching and rolling swells -- toward the winds of expansion, the calm sea of acceptance… 

But it was _so much harder_ without Tenzing’s steadfast gaze there with him: seeing him, witnessing him, _holding_ him in it and accepting it _with him --_ showing him that he was not alone. 

  
  


***

  
  


It _hurt._

\-- _why, Laurence --_

“Why are you -- this is what you wanted, isn’t it? What you asked for?” 

He had, he _had_ asked for it, had _wanted_ it, but… 

“Stop _crying.”_

_\-- make me a better showing --_

...but not like this. 

“Fucking sissy-boy.” 

No, not like this. 

  
  


***

  
  


It was -- time, time, it was _almost time,_ it was almost _done…_

No. No, not quite -- there were still a few -- and there, that bit there, it was -- surely he needed to unweave a few rows, or perhaps several, and redo them tomorrow -- 

_\-- I thought you might like to play Penelope a while --_

Cassandra, Brizo: _Tenzing --_ Laurence laughed until he cried. 

  
  


***

  
  


His eyes were open, staring into utter blackness: it was safe. 

It was dark, and warm, and Tharkay was asleep; it was safe to -- he could -- he could let himself -- 

“Will.” Oh, _fuck --_ but Tharkay’s foot was hooking around his ankle, just like on the ship, and there was a gentle press at his neck… 

Laurence tried to get his breath under control, to modulate his voice properly. “I do not mean to -- to --” 

“I am here with you,” Tharkay said, and -- oh, his hand, his _hand,_ Tharkay was putting his hand to Laurence’s face, and wiping at his tears… “We are here together.” Another kiss, and a careful inhale as Tharkay squirmed closer, nuzzling into his hair; and said something else, his voice coming out smaller, higher -- _younger,_ in that lilting tongue Laurence had first heard aboard the ship _…_ “--~-- ---, Aji, --~-- ----. - ---~-----, - --~----~--, -- --- here ------~--, - -~- here.” 

_Oh,_ this childlike comfort, when he had -- when he, and they -- even in his delirium and feverish pain, Tharkay had reached out, gentle, to wipe his tears away -- oh, _oh…_ he could not _stand_ it, the raw tenderness at Tharkay’s core, this grace he did not deserve: he could not stop weeping, no matter how hard he tried. 

A rustle of silk, and now a different kind of darkness, a closer kind of warmth: Tharkay had drawn the coverlet over their heads. 

“-~--? --- --~--, Aji, ---- --~-- here,” whispered that younger Tenzing, and nestled into his chest. “---~--~- ----- -~--- -- here, ---- --~--.” 

Laurence let himself weep. 

  
  


***

  
  


It was done. It was time. It looked _nothing_ like he had imagined it would, and it was -- it was -- it was perfect, it was everything he needed, everything he _had,_ and -- _I find I have committed too much to the enterprise to see it fail now --_

That night Laurence dreamt of Tharkay as Winged Victory, flying in low over the sea to come to his rescue in a spray of mist and rainbows -- and then Nike-Tharkay had alighted on the ramparts and -- she was lovely, _so_ lovely, and she had _chosen_ this; she had chosen to come back to them, to come back for him -- there had been no obligation, no: what had he done, what had he ever done, to deserve this grace? 

Laurence reached out, and Tharkay’s eyes were on him; she did not move as he brushed the backs of his fingers over one black-feathered wing, just the barest touch -- and then she tossed her head to drink in silver moonlight, and his hands were full of her hair, his arms were full of _her;_ his mind was filled with nothing but beauty as he looked upon the stars of the Southern Cross, reflected in her sky-black eyes. 

He put his mouth to her skin: to the hard planes of her chest, to the delicate hollow just behind her ear, and she -- she _wanted_ him to do it -- her hands clutched at his shoulders, her legs were wrapped around his hips, gripping him tight; she was rubbing against him, and -- _it’s all right to feel this, it’s all right to feel good --_

Warmth, close and dark -- the wind was whispering in the trees -- he lay back and looked up and her protection was surrounding him, _enfolding_ him -- night-dark feathers creating this safe nesting-place, just for them. 

“It felt good,” said the stars. “You made me feel good, you made us both feel so good.” 

His hands danced over a lacy hem, smoothed up boned curves to caress her wings -- _please, please, I don’t know who I am now, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to ask --_ she was an angel, a _goddess_ painted in shades of earth and starlight, made of silken shadows: black and lovely and terrifying and true; and he -- he -- _please, help me, take me, remake me --_ he felt pathetic, _unworthy_ before her: all he had to offer was himself, pitiful and broken. 

“You honor me,” she said, and pressed her fingers to his pulse. “You, just as yourself, just like this -- fuck, it’s enough to -- you’re enough, you’re _more_ than enough.” 

And then Laurence woke, alone, for what he hoped would be the last time in a very long while. 

That morning Temeraire delivered his gifts for the pair of them to Laurence with an admonition to “make sure to give him the correct one, won’t you?” -- and adding a sly wink which seemed to have _far_ too much knowledge behind it -- before flying off to London to spend a few days with Perscitia. 

The rest of the day passed rather as normal, for a precursor to what might just well turn out to be the most momentous evening of his life: he spent it with the man he loved. 

\-- _doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt my_ \-- and Laurence could _think_ it, now; he could freely _say_ it to himself, and perhaps, if he had the courage, he might even say it to _him:_ love, love, _l_ _ove._ Agape… 

He had not quite allowed himself to think of what might follow; neither had he _quite_ permitted himself to think of -- of what he might, what _they_ might, if he -- but -- _it is a hazard as well to consider before as after meeting it --_

So that night Laurence drew himself a bath, and administered the clyster he’d procured from the apothecary, having intimated some certain digestive complaints, which that man had seen fit to address by supplying him with the usual treatment without a second glance. 

He spent some time fiddling with his appearance in the mirror, never having initiated a tryst before and therefore unsure what the proper dress might be for such an occasion. Surely he must wear Temeraire’s gift, of course -- “the _correct_ one, Laurence” -- and his nightshirt and drawers beneath, he supposed, for the thought of having nothing between him and Tharkay but that thin silk was… invigorating. 

He peered at his face -- the lines around his eyes and mouth, seams which deepened daily -- and combed his hair with the last of the jasmine-oil from Peking, tying it back into its usual neat queue -- and then checked himself: should he not let it hang loose? He shivered a little, with the indecency of it, the implication -- but then, was that not exactly his intent? He shivered again, this time with -- with desire, and anticipation, and let his hair down. 

The three steps across the hall had never seemed so daunting, but he made them nonetheless; he still had not the slightest idea what he might say, but at least he knew himself awake, this time. 

Well -- 

Yes: the lamp-flame was hot, it _burned,_ so he was awake. Excellent. Wonderful. Very good. 

He tapped at the door. 

  
  


***

  
  


“When I was young I used to sit and watch it for hours -- light in water.” The three of them sat against Temeraire’s flank, Granby mostly asleep on Tharkay’s shoulder; Laurence was resting at his other side, staring up at the reflections of the sea on the underside of Temeraire’s black wing. “My mother taught me about Descartes, and light -- how light is itself a kind of wave. How the water bends it and makes the light-waves look different; how the colors are all there, already, in the light we see. How water is like a prism-jewel, which brings them out, and that’s why there are rainbows. 

“Water, and light, and waves, and waves of light in the water… and it’s -- there are ways to _describe_ it, how it will look and why it happens, so _precisely,_ so truly. The positions change, the form; but the relationships remain the same: two sets of variables which seem at first to be so disparate as to be meaningless to one another are in fact _equally balanced,_ interrelated -- the elegance of it. There’s beauty in it. Look how beautiful it is, the light, and it’s -- how can the truth of it not be beautiful?” His words hung in the air for a moment, Laurence feeling rather raw and exposed, before -- 

“Truth _is_ beauty,” murmured Tharkay. “Or else beauty is truth: infinitely changing, ever growing in complexity; and yet ever itself. The equations you speak of _are_ beautiful, for they are ever _true.”_

“Tenzing.” It still felt like a forbidden word, in his mouth, but when he spoke it aloud Tharkay always _smiled…_ “You’re a bit like when light shines through water, aren’t you. Bending, refracting -- you take things I once thought were straightforward and bend them into waves: patterns I’d never imagined, but which were always there. Showing me how light contains color, making me see the beauty in it.” 

Oh… oh, that had just, just _slid_ out -- he had not meant to _reveal_ quite so much of himself… 

“Tenzing Tharkay of the Misty Rainbow, at your service.” Tharkay extended his hand -- not as if to shake, but -- but as a lady might, wrist held _just_ so. 

Laurence crooked a smile and sketched a bow over the offered hand. “It is an honor; you illuminate waves of truth, my lady Iris, each time you reveal to me your self; I am ever humbled before your beauty.” 

It was all right, it was all right because it was play, it was just for _play,_ here on the ship -- but would Tharkay take insult even so, would he -- 

“You ought to be,” said Tharkay lightly. “I’ve a wonderful tailor; shall I give you his name?” 

_Oh._ Ohhhhh, oh. 

Temeraire’s voice rumbled above them, sleepy and plaintive. “What are they talking about?” 

“Something about how light is waves and math is rainbows,” mumbled Granby, and yawned. 

Tharkay smiled -- _smiled_ at him, a private brilliance just for them. “More or less.”

  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurence: sewing is literally applied non-Euclidean geometry + a reason to touch Tenzing Tharkay’s beautiful body  
> Laurence: seriously how is nobody talking about this 
> 
> Granby: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME 
> 
> Laurence: and did you know that contour lines on topographic maps are just chiaroscuro but not  
> Tharkay: and also that beauty is truth and truth beauty, like, full stop  
> Laurence: wow, somebody should write that down  
> Granby, retching: you deserve each other you NERDS
> 
> ***
> 
> Q) does sweet baby golden retriever puppy Laurence have any idea what he’s getting into? 
> 
> Laurence: ok, there’s a decent chance I’ll be having sex tonight, how should I prepare  
> Laurence:  
> Laurence:  
> Laurence:  
> Laurence: *rings bell for enema*


	10. The Sitting-Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s Feb 1 2021 and it feels irresponsible of me not to amplify the protests going on in Nepal right now, so -- check out @sanjit_pariyar, @suzal_photo, and @dpen_stha for a few Nepalese photojournalists covering the events as they unfold. 
> 
> Isn’t It Love by Rebecca Sugar feat. Estelle, from the Steven Universe soundtrack - because there had to be at least one on this playlist, c’mon now

#  **The Sitting-Room ;**

**or,**

**Our heroes emerge**

*******

  
  
  


It was already shaping up to be a very good day. 

“Laurence, are you up?” Tharkay nudged the door further open. “It’s important.” 

“Out here.” 

In the predawn light Laurence was a figure wreathed in mist, painted with shades of cream and blue, gold and grey; and smiling -- _smiling,_ as Tharkay came to join him on the terrace. 

Tharkay knew that there had been a time this man was not dear to him, even remembered it more-or-less clearly; but it seemed a dream, sometimes, as if it had happened to someone else. He was still -- had always been, surely; or else Tharkay had always found him so -- that same species of beautiful, straightforward and true: broad of shoulder and spare of frame, though they’d both finally begun to fill out a little after the privations of war; and still those strong, capable hands, turned no longer to killing but to _making…_ ohh, it was _so_ good, to be here -- it was good to see Laurence smiling; it was good to see him content; it was good to be at ease. 

Tharkay set the pair of mugs on the ledge. “Try this.” Laurence shot him a quizzical look before acquiescing.

The first sip was one of confusion; the second of curiosity; the third, volition. “Oh, that’s -- that’s rather nice, isn’t it. It’s -- have you --?” 

“Yes.” Tharkay grinned. “I’ve put the bhang _in the coffee.”_

“Or the coffee in the bhang.” But he took another sip. “And for breakfast, no less.” 

“Come now: in a few short weeks’ time the boys will arrive, Temeraire’s term will commence, and we’ll begin meeting with all manner of engineers and architects. Let us snatch these remaining moments of leisure while we may, no? We certainly deserve them, after all.” 

Laurence drank again, this time with gusto. “We should add whiskey, and complete the triad.” 

“Now you’re speaking dangerously, Lord Admiral.” Tharkay lifted his mug. “I like the way you think.”

  
  
  
  


After breakfast Temeraire flew them southeast a ways, on his way out to London for the week; and deposited them on a riverbank with their mapmaking supplies, a canoe, and a picnic lunch. Tharkay had begun these treks nearly as soon as they’d moved in: he could not expect to husband the land as it deserved without a proper _picture;_ and now that Laurence was well enough to join him it was a true pleasure to engage in cartography together aaa’AAAaaarrrRRRrrrrrrcq, and not out of desperation or fear. 

They’d already made an aerial survey, of course; and drafted a massive sketch of the entire estate, which currently hung on the wall of the big room; and now they’d set themselves to filling it in bit by bit: learning all the little ridges and valleys, the byways and becks.

This particular bend in the river they were now mapping was lovely -- high bluffs on one side, gravel banks of sycamore and willow on the other; swift currents sparkling clear all the way down to the rocky bottom; positively leaping with trout. They’d pulled off to stretch their legs a bit, perhaps have something to eat and explore the area, but -- well. Tharkay would have to come back alone sometime soon -- or better yet, with Demane: Laurence could move quietly enough when he cared to, and he certainly handled their canoe with unsurpassable skill; but a woodsman he was not. 

“I hope you’re enjoying your sloshing about, my sailor; you’ve scared off _all_ the fish.” 

“As we are not fishing at the moment, I find myself unconcerned. Shall we float on?” 

“In a moment.” Green, waving gentle tendrils under the water -- not the dark emerald-brown of the usual water-weeds but brighter -- almost _blue_ -green… “Let’s find the spring, first.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“There’s a spring close by,” said Tharkay. “Practically on top of us, or just upriver; we must have missed it on the way down.” 

“O wisest of prophets,” said Laurence. “How do you know?” 

Tharkay rolled his eyes. “See that plant, there, under the surface?” Laurence looked, and nodded. “Watercress.” 

“And how, my Lord Peaksmoor, should watercress indicate the presence of a spring?” Augh, had he _really_ thought it a good idea to teach Laurence that brand of mockery? 

Well, yes. Yes, because it was -- it was _so good_ to hear that gentle teasing in his tone: the sense of _play,_ the -- the clear absence of ragged desperation. The _ease._

“It’s because the water’s colder. See those plants, there -- the white-and-purple flowers, and the little pink buds? Willow and knotweed like to grow at the banks or in the shallows, where it’s nice and warm; and watercress prefers spring-water -- moving, if possible. There’s watercress here, which means there’s a spring feeding into the river, somewhere close by. Shall we --” but Laurence was already forging upstream. “Stop, stop! Have you retained _none_ of Demane’s lessons? We can’t _feel_ the difference, in the water temperature, so it must be very small: listen for it, first. They sound different, the little spring-creeks. Higher, smaller -- not the river-melody, but its counterpoint.” 

This, this, _this:_ standing next to Laurence, not quite touching, in sunlit silence -- as _themselves,_ with no-one but each other -- surrounded by the music of water: the songs of safety, of fellowship, of witnessing and ease. 

And, somewhere very close, a cautious piping, cold and clear: tremolo, delicate and fragile -- but enough to grow on. 

“There.” Tharkay pointed. “D’you hear it?” Laurence was attuned to a deeper kind of water, a fuller sound; and yet while the music’s form changed, its essential nature did not: he would find it soon enough, if he listened. 

“Mmmm, I think so? It sounds like… pearls, on a cuff; or lace.” 

“Yes,” said Tharkay, a little taken aback by the apt description. “Yes, exactly -- see there, up the cliff-face?” More bright green, golden-blue. “There’s your lace, my sailor: maidenhair fern likes the spring-water, too. She’ll grow right out of the rock where it trickles over, or seeps through; and in cascading rows: one over the other, like the ruffles of a neckcloth.” 

“It’s beautiful.” And there it was: that loveliest of smiles. “Let’s find the source.” 

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been _say--_ aaaaargh, just, just -- just get climbing, will you?” 

Laurence’s smile turned to a smirk. “Never let the Englishman go first.” 

“Auuuuuuuuuuuuu _uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurgh --_ hoisted by my own petard.” _Take physic, pomp --_ Tharkay grinned. “Have I told you about how I tried to quote Lear to Wellington? It went about as well as you’d imagine.” He began to scale the bluff. 

“I gave a society dinner for the formation-officers, in Prussia. Banquet-settings and all.” 

“Ha! What a pair we are.” 

“It’s rather fortunate we found each other, isn’t it,” said Laurence, and Tharkay nearly fell right back into the river. 

“Yes, well. Yours was worse.” _Excellent_ recovery, Tenzing. 

“You’ll hear no denials from me.”

“Wh --” _what?_

_No, don’t -- just, just concentrate, concentrate: concentrate on climbing._

Once they’d reached the top of the bluff it was easy enough to follow the spring-creek up the wooded hill, clambering over mossy boulders and pockets of brush, ever listening for that piping water-song; until the creek-bed deepened and widened, and they stood before -- 

“It’s -- you’ll -- ?” _Dearest_ Will. 

“I slept with Gherni and the clutches for nearly a year, after we arrived back to Britain -- it’s where I got these clothes.” He had long favored the Manx homespun for their mapping-excursions. “No, you’ve no room to talk; the Rothschilds tell me they opened upwards of two dozen new dragon-accounts during that time, thanks to you.” 

“You mean thanks to _you.”_

“Be that as it may,” said Tharkay, and swept past Laurence into the cave. 

Night closed around them, swift and silent; only the spring’s trickling song and Laurence’s crunching footsteps echoed in the velvet dark. Water-light danced on stone walls above their heads, for a time; and then they turned a corner and even daylight’s reflections were gone. They sat side-by-side at the edge of the water, not quite touching, as always -- they didn’t need to _see,_ anymore, to be aware of each other; _that_ was an instinct they’d carried and honed since Istanbul. 

It felt good -- a _pleasure,_ even -- to use it now, here, in safety. 

“No telling how far back it goes,” mused Tharkay, looking up and out into utter blackness. “We should return another day, with lanterns. And Gherni, I suppose: it might serve as a landing-place for the pack, or even another song-cave; though we’d have to wait ‘til after a few storms to see whether it floods, with the rain. D’you think the holly-bush would grow at the entrance?” 

“For a certainty, though I’m sure I do not see why that should be a more auspicious planting-place for it than any other.” Dearest Laurence, and his way of asking without questions. 

Tharkay lay back to rest his head under an arm. “Another name-offering, from one of the Welsh lines: Gwydion Treeborn, trickster and Bard, who was prince and commander at the -- well, they call it the Battle of the Trees; and I was never quite sure whether it’s meant literally or as metaphor: to describe how the many clan-packs united as a single singer-line, under Gwydion, in order to fight off an invading force… ‘Rush, ye chiefs of the wood, with the prince in your thousands, to hinder envious people…’ It’s sung of among the packs, still, though it happened over a thousand years ago: a millennium is only a half-dozen generations or so, to them.” 

“It’s amazing, the things you know,” said Laurence. 

“William Fed Five Thousand Dragons on Two Wagons of Charqui Laurence,” said Tharkay, and sang. 

> “I was a sword in hand,   
> I was a shield in battle,   
> I was a string in the harp  
>  of enchantment for nine years.  
> In water I was the spume.   
> I was a sponge in the fire.  
> I was scrub in the covert.  
> I am not one who does not sing;   
>  I sang, though I was little,  
>  at the Battle of the Scrub-shoots.

“The words of Bard Taliesin.” 

“Ancient dragon-packs, a Welsh Bard, a thousand-year-old battle…” Laurence hummed a sigh. “And you know the story, of _course_ you do. Is it another metered epic?” 

“Right in one, sailor,” said Tharkay, and began again to sing. 

> “Now, the Alders, at the head of the line,   
>  thrust forward, the first in time.   
> The Willows and Mountain Ash  
>  were late joining the army.   
> The Black thorns, full of spines --   
>  (how the child delights in its fruit!)  
> And its mate, the Medlar,   
>  will cut down all opposition.   
> The Rose marched along  
>  against a hero throng.  
> The Raspberry was decreed  
>  to serve most usefully as food  
> For the sustenance of life  
>  not to carry on strife."

He broke off a moment. “That bit is my favorite, I think -- the Blackthorn and Raspberry: even in the middle of war, they valued those who _sustain_ rather than destroy -- ‘How the child delights in its fruit!’ Well, and supply-lines are paramount, to be sure.” Laurence’s chuckle vibrated right through him, from the single point where their shoulders nearly touched. Tharkay shivered, just the once, and continued: 

> “The Yew is to the fore,   
>  at the seat of war.  
> The Ash was exalted most  
>  before the sovereign power.  
> The Elm, despite vast numbers,   
>  swerved never a foot,   
>  but fell on the centre,   
>  on the wings, and the rear.   
> The Hazel was esteemed,  
>  by its number in the quiver….   
> By the channels of the sea  
>  the Beech did prosperously. 

“It goes on -- I shan’t bore you with the rest -- but they made me learn all their names; and in Welsh to boot, when Arkady and I went to complete the foster-swap. The holly’s called Celyn; and it was the hero of the battle… ‘Celyn glesyssid -- bu ev yng·wrhyd.’ So was born the singer-line of Gwydion from the many tree-clans, who took the holly as their sigil from that day forward. They offered it to us as protection: it’s a -- a name-blessing, upon our house, from Gwydion’s line.” _Our_ house… but Laurence seemed to take it in stride. 

“There can be no question of _boring_ me, my compass; I do not think I could ever -- the more I learn of you, the more sensible I become to your unfathomable depths -- I wonder if the relationship is exponential? Or merely multiplicative…” his voice trailed off for a moment, before -- “Nevertheless, my point is this: I delight in knowing that there are infinite truths hiding within each single beam of your luminous self, Tenzing Calliope Iris Tharkay; and you honor me each time you choose to reveal another.” 

What the _fuck?_

“Oh,” said Tharkay. “Oh, well. Thank you, that’s -- that’s very kind of you to say, William Arachne Apollo Laurence. Shall we, erm -- shall we return to the world now, d’you think?”

“Let’s stay a while longer.” A sigh. “I like it here.” 

_\-- you already had my name --_

Tharkay’s laugh tasted of smoke, salty-sweet; it poured from him quite unbidden. “Hmmmmmmlikewiiiiise.” He hummed his own sigh on a falling scale, and sang: 

> “Black is sprung from jet,  
>  the hump from the mountain,  
>  the furnace from the woods,  
>  and great seas from the wind --  
>  he, who sings, has heard the roar.   
> We have emanated from birches:  
> He, who disenchants, will restore us.  
> Oak-saplings ensnared us,  
>  by the incantation of the Oak-priest.   
> Full of laughter is the echo,  
>  which offends no man.” 

“Yes,” said Laurence. “Yes, exactly.” 

  
  
  
  
  


Upon returning to the house they separated to wash and change; and Tharkay to see to the evening meal. The pack had delivered the iron-bound chests from Istanbul just last week -- all his books, his logs and stories; Laurence’s thread-map and his aji’s altar-figures, her jewelry; and his favorite pieces from Omar’s and Arjun’s wardrobes, and Eadora’s and Abdelkader’s, and yes, Lumanti’s plain cotton saree, though he hadn’t dared air it out, yet. 

He _had,_ however, taken to wearing the silk chemises Laurence had made, of an evening, beneath his shirt and tapalan -- for he now had several sets of Newa clothes; and in wool from his own herds to boot, all patterned after General Chu’s name-blessing. It was -- nice, wearing the suit of his first home spun from the looms of his new one. Better than nice; it felt _unimaginably_ good -- quite literally: there had been not a single point in his life at which Tharkay could have imagined this. 

Dinner was dal and lamb, left to simmer all day; and a watercress salad, of course, freshly gathered; and rich crusty brown bread, with butter and jam; and sliced apples from the orchard, which had been allowed to run rather wild over the last decade but nevertheless produced an abundance of small, tart-sweet fruit; and a very nice dry red wine to set off the meal. It was all rather tasty, if he did say so himself, so why was Laurence only picking at the main dish? 

“If you want English food I’m afraid you’ll have to make it on your nights, my sailor: the entirety of my facility in the kitchen, which admittedly is little enough, was gained east of Istanbul.” 

“Speak not to me of facility in the kitchen: we both remember _my_ disasters.” Tharkay chortled, or snorted, and Laurence glanced at him sidelong in wry acknowledgement. “Your fare is delicious as always, Tenzing; I regret I am unable to partake this evening.” 

“Ah, well, in that case.” He raised an eyebrow, inviting further explanation; and receiving none, instead shrugged. “Give it here, then.” 

Hours later, after they’d had their brandy and coffee and retired each to their own suite, Tharkay was sitting on the floor of his sitting-room deep in thought, all manner of floor-plans and maps spread out before him, when there came a tap at the door he’d left cracked open, as was their wont. 

“Just the man I need,” he said, not looking up as Laurence entered. “Will you come take a look at this? I’ve been trying my damndest to figure out what to do with the servants’ quarters, you see; for we certainly need more than just the two of us to take care of the place, once it’s open; and yet I find I don’t much like the idea of _servants,_ you know -- and then I thought, well, but those who care for the estate needn’t be _servile,_ in that sense; and their lodgings might -- but if not, what else? -- and then I thought, well, perhaps -- perhaps a school…” and then the scent hit him, as Laurence drifted closer, and Tharkay stood so abruptly he actually blacked out for a moment. “What, er, what brings you here at this hour?” _Smelling of Peking, and Istanbul._

“This, now,” said Laurence, his eyes on the maps. “You’re thinking dormitories, then, on the upper floors?” 

“Yes,” said Tharkay. “Obviously. But -- Laurence, surely,” _surely there is a reason you are here, now, standing before me with your hair cascading like ferns of lacy silver, in a dressing-gown of river-green silk._

“Ah, yes, that’s -- it, I -- that is to say, Temeraire tells me we have been remiss in our duties to you.” 

Tharkay’s pulse was beating at his temples, his wrists, but -- “Blast it, has he been talking to the pack?” Arkady had threatened to go to Temeraire just a fortnight ago, if that; but when nothing had come of it Tharkay had assumed they’d let the matter drop.

Well, and that one was on him: aaaaa’AAAArrrRRRrrrRRRrrrrRrcq. 

“I believe so,” said Laurence. “Who informed him that we are nigh-unforgivably tardy in presenting you with the proper name-offerings, in formal recognition of our status as your _t’hy’la.”_

“I’m going to strangle Arkady,” said Tharkay. “Firstly, it’s, it’s an archaic term, to begin with -- nobody even --” 

“Nevertheless, Temeraire has taken the opportunity to present a pair of -- ‘staying-at-home coats,’ I believe was the term he used -- to the two of us, as _his_ t’hy’la.” Laurence lay one of the two packages he was carrying onto the desk beside them. “And I’m sure I do not need to tell you that he will be very cross indeed, if you do not accept.” 

A dressing-gown of his own to match Laurence’s, in river-green silk, tinted bronze: black at the cuffs and hem, the trim heavily embroidered with gold dragons -- and the dragons’ eyes, they were -- 

“He calls them ‘very small sapphires,’” said Laurence dryly. “I believe his exact words were ‘I am not sure there are enough jewels in the world to convey the depth of my love, but I shall try, and I recommend you do the same.’” 

“It’s lovely; I shall have to thank him in person, when he returns.” Modulated voice, hammering heart: _surely_ Laurence could hear it, could _feel_ it through the floor. 

“I also wish to present an offering, if I may, though it contains no jewels whatsoever; and should you choose not to accept for any reason, I… that is to say, our friendship may remain unchanged.”

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Don’t, don’t run, don’t leap to -- just breathe, breathe, breathe._

It was an unassuming medium-sized package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a black silk ribbon, but inside -- inside was… 

Tharkay gasped audibly, tears already springing to his eyes as he looked up. “D’yRlymean’t?” 

“What?” 

For a moment there was an awful screeching, shrieking silence between them -- but then Tharkay recovered his balance, for of _course_ Laurence meant it, of _course_ he did: Laurence never did anything except deliberately, methodically, thoughtfully and with _care…_ and so Tharkay finally allowed himself to make a constellation out of stars, to see the pattern Laurence had been weaving all day, in order to bring them together -- to bring them to this. 

And now he was here, in all his trembling strength: standing before him with sea-sky eyes reflecting watery lamplight, just like the ship: _please, I need…_ Oh this, _this:_ valor, khona, offering -- offering himself up this way, _oh…_ oh, dearest. Oh, beloved. 

_Yes._ Yes, yes, _yes._

“You -- you honor me, Will,” Tharkay rasped. “This is the most exquisite piece of craftsmanship I have ever seen, and that includes Gherni’s name-blessing. Don’t tell them I said that.” 

Still that shaky fear, wavering at the edge of breaking -- but a weak chuckle nonetheless. “I shan’t.” Oh, this -- the vulnerability, the _terror,_ the very fact that he was here in _spite_ of all that -- ohh, was this how Laurence had felt in the eucalyptus grove, all the way back when? 

“Come, let’s -- will you show me how, what -- please, sit, sit, I’ll just be a moment --” Tharkay motioned Laurence to the settee, and drew all the curtains; after which he closed the door, and -- well. The click of the lock was rather satisfying indeed. 

He sat next to Laurence on the settee, at a safe distance; drew that _magnificent_ blanket over both their laps. “This is -- I’ve never -- how did you _do_ it?” 

“There’s nothing wrong with leftwise yarn,” said Laurence. “Did you know that?” 

“I didn’t even know there _was_ such a thing,” said Tharkay honestly. 

So Laurence talked about ways of spinning, and ways of seeing; and how he had come to the realization that deviance could become a _strength,_ a feature to be _built_ upon, rather than a stain to be bleached away; and Tharkay looked at the blanket and saw it, he _saw it:_ how the threads started off as expected, at the beginning -- and then how things began to shift, as they pulled at each other; introducing a wrinkle here, an arc there -- puckering and ridging formed of the very fabric itself -- curving like rippling valleys, like contour lines. 

And then Laurence reached across him to indicate something, at the corner, and as he withdrew he brushed the backs of his fingers against Tharkay’s knee, over the blanket -- and oh, _oh,_ Tharkay could _feel_ it, could feel him shaking: anxiety edging on panic, but reaching out nonetheless; and he responded by shifting closer, enough that their knees touched _just_ the slightest bit, and breathing evenly while Laurence went very, very still. 

“Fascinating,” Tharkay murmured, keeping his eyes on the blanket. “But how did you write the mathematic expression to describe -- ?” And Laurence’s posture relaxed. 

“It was easy, once I’d calculated the relative tensile strengths of the clockwise, leftwise, and double-spun yarns.” 

“Somehow I don’t think that’s the case.” He chanced to meet Laurence's eyes. “And what is _double-spun_ yarn?” 

That launched another round of explanations, _most_ of which Tharkay could follow, about how the direction of a -- a vector, or wave, or thread? -- moving through a medium changed based on the density of the medium itself -- and how the density-forces acting upon that thread-vector might bend it in certain directions; how the accumulated effects of those forces would -- 

Oh, he was beautiful, like this. So brilliant, so _very_ brilliant, and so _scared;_ and willing to offer himself up even so -- oh, _oh,_ the bravery of this man, the fortitude, the valor… 

\-- _you illuminate waves of truth --_

...and this time Tharkay let himself sway toward Laurence, let himself _watch_ those rosy lips move, making no effort to disguise what he knew would be written on his face, in his eyes: attraction, pride, humility, love. 

“Will,” he said, hushed, when Laurence had finished. “Laurence, you’ve -- it’s -- it’s the waves of light, like the water, and the colors it bends -- and it’s, it’s, it’s a -- a _landscape,_ a map, my -- have you, have you _woven me a map?”_

Laurence dropped his gaze. “In a manner of speaking.” 

_“Aceso,”_ Tharkay whispered forcefully. “Arachne, Daedalus, Charis, Apollo.” He placed his hand on the blanket between them, palm up. “Beloved.” 

Laurence didn’t look up, but it was all right, because his hand snaked out to clutch at Tharkay's and lace their fingers together. 

“Tenzing.” Ohh, even Laurence’s _voice_ was trembling, and that note, that _note --_ “Tenzing, please -- please, I need…” 

“My very dear sailor.” Tharkay made his own voice flow like warm honey. “I should like to remind you that Temeraire is away to London, which I am now certain is by design; the boys have yet to arrive; and it is a long road indeed to the village -- we are the only sentient creatures for miles in any direction. The walls of the house, though in disrepair, _do_ block sound rather well; I’ve just locked the door; and furthermore, we are in _our own home.”_ He drew that _glorious_ blanket over their heads in one swift movement, just as a child might. “See? We’re safe here, beloved, we’re safe here together, like this.” 

A sob-laugh. 

“Laurence, habibi, it’s -- it’s just us, it’s just this -- it’s all right to feel this, it’s all right to feel good. I’m here, my sailor, I’ve got you, I’m here, I’m here --”

Laurence’s mouth landed at the corner of his own, clumsy at first, but -- “Tenz--” and Tharkay brought his hands up to frame Laurence’s face -- to catch Laurence’s lips with his and kiss him, thoroughly and well. 

Those strong hands were clutching at his hair, taking down the braid and combing it into waves; caressing the back of his neck, his shoulders, pulling at him: pulling him in, pulling him _closer_ \-- Tharkay climbed into Laurence’s lap, one knee to either side of his hips, and rose up to press against him, to _pour into him_ all the reassurance, all the comfort, all the _love_ he possibly could; the care Laurence needed in this moment: love, for the person he was, just as he was. 

What was it about a kiss that brought all of one’s awareness to _right here, right now,_ to _this and only this,_ to how it _felt_ to be doing this, here, with -- with his beloved, with -- and perhaps that was it, for Tharkay had kissed and been kissed before, but -- but Laurence’s were the only kisses that kept him _here:_ kept him present, kept him feeling nothing but this, this, this, this, _this…_

Tharkay tugged the blanket down around their shoulders in a rush of cool air -- tore his mouth free, and put his lips to Laurence’s temple. “Yes, Will, _yes_ \-- touch me, touch me, _please --_ everywhere, anywhere you like, my sailor: I am yours, this is _ours,_ we -- we are here together -- you _deserve_ this, you deserve to feel good, yes -- aaaaaiiihhh--” he cried out in surprise and pleasure; for Laurence, mouth upon his neck, had bitten down just _there,_ and -- and now he was making a small sound, drawing back, but -- “Don’t stop, beloved, that feels good, it feels _so_ good -- aaaaaiiih, ohhhhhhhhfuck _yes,_ don’t stop, _please_ don’t stop: of all the marks ever left upon my skin, I will bear yours with pride.” 

He pulled at the ties of his tapalan, the buttons of his shirt, and -- oh, Laurence would _see,_ he was wearing the -- he was wearing the _chemise,_ but -- but it was all right, it was all _right_ because Laurence’s mouth was falling to his bare shoulder, to his collarbone, to his nipple through the silk; he was gripping the fabric and sliding his hands beneath the hem, oh, ohhhhh -- ohh, _fuck,_ oh -- was he weeping? was someone weeping? who was weeping? 

“Tenzing, I -- Tenzing, Tenzing.” 

“Yes, ya’sailor’ashayantlxሄ, yes, _yesss,_ fuck yes…” Tharkay bit at the shell of Laurence’s ear, buried his nose to Laurence's hair and inhaled deeply. “‘Jasmine-offerings of silver and gold…’ ohhhh, you honor me, beloved, you -- you are _so_ \-- your joy, your pleasure -- yes, _yes,_ I want you, I want _all_ of you, I want to make you feel so good, my heart’s anchor; you deserve to feel so _fucking_ good just as you are, just like this --” 

And he captured Laurence’s mouth again, slipping his tongue between parted lips, cradling that lovely face between his hands as he rolled his hips -- riding, _sliding_ against Laurence's hot and hard vulnerability, down below: the site of all that sensitivity, all that potential to feel _pleasure_ _\--_ just there, just _there,_ just like _that,_ oh, oh _yes_ \-- and Laurence grunted and moaned; surely it would not be long now, tense and on edge as he was -- and yes, _yessss --_ please, _yes --_ Laurence’s moans soon heightened in pitch, and he seized and trembled -- and Tharkay held him: hummed encouragement and kissed him through it, kissed him as his moans changed to whines, and then those whines changed to a whimper, and then that whimper became a sigh that went on, and on, and on. 

This, this, oh, _this:_ Laurence’s arms around him, Laurence’s mouth sliding against his, warm and soft -- he could stay like this forever, he could _do_ this forever: it felt that good. But -- 

Tharkay drew back just enough to ask, “Are you well, my sailor?” 

“I -- yes.” There was wonder in Laurence's voice. “Yes, I think I’m beginning to be.” 

Tears sprang to Tharkay’s eyes once more: ohh yes, he could do this forever. “Good. Good, that’s -- here, let’s --” and he tugged at Laurence’s drawers; Laurence, catching on, pulled them the rest of the way off, and used them to wipe himself clean. “It doesn’t matter, toss them anywhere, just -- come _here,_ habibi, come here and let me _hold_ you, please, let me -- you’re, you’re so,” and he kissed Laurence again and again, melting into him, touching him everywhere, _everywhere,_ until it was impossible to say which breath was whose. 

  
  
  
  


“Tenzing,” said Laurence a very long while later, looking up from where he was cradled against Tharkay’s chest. “Tenzing, I -- I agape you.” 

“Why, ya’sailor’ashayantlxሄ,” said Tharkay softly, and kissed his temple. “You honor me; I agape you, too.” 

“‘Shayanch’ -- you’ve said that a few times, now.” 

“It’s Durzagh, for beloved. It’s -- well, it’s not _technically_ Durzagh but an older construct, held over from the Old Zagh. Most shorten it to ashaya, these days, but Arkady is Quixote himself -- yes, more even than you, lovely -- and refers to Wringe thus, by title; it means something like ‘sailor, beloved mine.’” 

“I’d like to kiss you again, I think,” said Laurence. 

“I’d like that very much,” said Tharkay, and leaned in. 

The effervescence of this moment, rolling through them like waves -- the sheer relief, at being here together -- at the heavy tension in the air having been released, all the shrouds finally lifted, the gaps between them finally closed -- oh, oh, had he thought himself unimaginably happy, before? This -- this _torrential_ joy, filling him entirely; oh, had he thought himself _overflowing,_ before? There was not enough expanse in the universe for this -- this love, this love, this _love._

And later still, when Tharkay had his breath back and Laurence was nestled safely beneath his arm once more, the words of Taliesin bubbled from him quite unbidden for the second time that day. 

> “I was in many a guise,   
>  before I was disenchanted.   
> I am a grey-cowled minstrel:   
>  I believe in illusion.   
> I was for a time in the sky:   
>  I was observing the stars.   
> I was a message in writing:   
>  I was a book to my priest.   
> I was the light of the altar-horns,   
>  for a year and a half.   
> I was a bridge, which is stationed  
>  over three score water-meets.   
> I went travelling: I was an eagle;   
>  I was a coracle on the seas.   
> I was the attraction in good.   
> I was a drop in a shower.” 

“Will you tell me about your Naming?” murmured Laurence against his skin. “Really tell me, I mean.” 

\-- _only those we love --_

Tharkay took a deep breath: he could not but honor Laurence’s raw vulnerability this night with reciprocity, and yet _\--_ and yet, and yet, and yet. 

\-- _those who love us truly and well find their own way to our --_

“Tenzing Calliope Iris: you were more right than you know, my sailor, when you named me thus this morning.” _You already had my name, when I gave it --_ surely Laurence could feel his heart crashing against his ribs. 

“The process itself was simple enough: while you were seeking and finding the plague-cure, I was learning songs from Gherni -- did you know she’s over three _hundred_ years old? Anyway, she adopted me as her Apprentice, after a fashion; and then Wringe and Arkady sent me off to Terra Australis with their egg and the two from the Corps -- yes, _that_ selection was apparently their doing as well; don’t ask me how -- and then upon our most recent return to Britain I found I’d been deemed ready to be Named a Singer in my own right -- quite without my knowledge, might I add. 

“As for the Naming itself, well...” _You already had my --_ “My aji named me Tenzing, as you know, when I was born.” Laurence was still listening, rapt -- sailing easily with the change in the wind, as always. “When she did so she named me for Durga, in Durga’s image; we are of Durga’s line.” 

“Durga,” said Laurence. “I’ve heard that name before.” 

“Yes. She is much venerated among my people.” He switched to Newari: “She is creator of all things: the divine mother, presider over the seasons of life, death, and birth; the liberator of the oppressed and marginalized; the spirit of the warrior.” 

“You said that aboard the ship, during the egg-game, the night we spoke to the boys.” 

“You’ve a good ear,” said Tharkay, a little surprised that Laurence should have recalled a single Newari phrase he’d heard uttered once, years ago, and prior to his brain-fever to boot. 

“Not I, but Sipho: I should never have recognized the words had he not repeated them ad nauseum ever since.” Oh, _oh,_ that was perhaps his heart melting, but -- but yes, that added up. “Durga is your people’s Creator, then?” 

“In a manner of speaking: she’s a bit like… Gaea, I suppose, if you want to think of it that way.”

“Yes,” said Laurence. “Yes, I -- I see.” And perhaps he did, for his eyes were -- were very, very bright. 

“I stayed just over a year when I found my aji again. I would have stayed forever, I think, but -- well.” His smile twisted, wry. “She said I looked like my mother. Not two days after I arrived she was calling me Lumanti half the time -- you know how it is with grandparents, and she was by this point well over sixty. I grew used to answering to it, in the end; though looking back these last years I’ve often wondered whether she… well, that’s neither here nor there. But the very same features for which I had been tormented and punished, in England, were not -- not _ugly,_ to my aji; they were familiar, they were _lovely._

“I never got to _know_ my mother, not really; I was so young when she died, and my father never spoke of her as -- so -- I -- but to my aji it was a, a _blessing,_ that I looked like her. Though I could not find beauty in my own face, I learned to look at myself through my aji’s eyes, and it -- it became a source of pride, rather than shame, to look like my mother: my aji loved me for it. 

“After Terra Australis, my next assignment was Assam. I’ve told you I lived as a musician: a colleague and I had seconded to Kolkata, in order to make certain contacts on behalf of the Borsenapati. It was -- necessary -- for me to go as a woman, in those circles.” He shrugged. “To be hijra is common enough in that part of the world; and at the time I found it convenient cover, for it afforded me freedom of movement even under my employers’ eye: they never recognized me -- of course they didn’t. Even when they raided -- well,” he cut himself off. “That’s another story.” 

“In Bengmara, the first time I was made up as a woman, I -- I looked at my reflection through no one’s eyes but my own, and -- and I saw my _mother._ I was by this point older than she ever got to be, but I saw her all the same -- I _looked_ like her; and I _loved_ myself for it, for I could hear my aji calling me, clear as a bell -- and in that moment, when asked for my name, I gave it without thinking: Lumanti. 

“So I went as Lumanti for a year or so, off and on, though admittedly rather more on than off; and made not a few acquaintances as she -- not all of which were ranged on the side of the Empire, mind. And then the assignment ended; and I reported first back to Istanbul, then Britain, then Istanbul again; and then we received word of Bonaparte’s plans to invade Russia, and, well, you know the rest.” 

“Somehow,” said Laurence, “I don’t think I do.”

“Well, perhaps not,” said Tharkay. “For while you were talking to Moshueshue, at Fontainebleau, Lumanti was having tea with the Bengalis.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“One of their dragons recognized me -- apparently one cannot disguise one’s own scent, or so it would seem; for Falakji immediately knew me for Lumanti even when I presented myself as Captain Tenzing Tharkay. Though, upon examination,” he mused, “it is perhaps not surprising, for I did have the impression that I was quite an irritant to her, in Kolkata; I was always posing questions for which she had no immediate answer.” 

Laurence chuckled. “Of course you were.”

“You know among the Karak mountain-packs I’m called Cloudspeaky, yes? _Tharkay_ Cloudspeaky, that is. Well, apparently line-elders maintain more-or-less regular contact, and by this point I’d already gone through the ordeal with Kxhaa -- oh, that was in the Pamirs; Kxhaa is _Gherni's_ teacher and Namer, if you can believe it -- anyway, at Fontainebleau Falakji called me _Lumanti Cloudspeaky,_ and it was as if, it felt, I… none of my covers has ever been connected to my real identity -- none of them has ever _been_ my identity, but it… it fit _right,_ just like your coat. 

“And then Falakji stood as one of my line-elders, at the Naming, and when Arkady gave my home-name in the Durzagh tradition it was Tenzing Lumanti tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi, and I… it was my _name,_ it was _my name,_ the -- it was, it was, and then they Named me Tharkay Cloudspeaky tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi tlᵜrcq”ilniyaanuˀRRooushxxll°Gherni… tlᵜRRooushxxll°Kxhaa, tlᵜRRooushxxll°QrouykA _…_ well, the whole thing’s rather long, as it gives my entire lineage going back more than ten thousand years, near as I can figure, but you get the idea. It goes all the way back to Durga: I am a Singer of Durga’s line, I was Named for Durga.”

“So -- you mean to say, Durga is considered a -- a divine presence, among the dragons of the Pamirs? Among Gherni and the rest, and -- and your Bengali line-elder, as well?” 

“More an ancestor-goddess, perhaps. There are many other singer-lines, but Durga’s is oldest. This pendant here is Kxhaa’s line-blessing; it matches my aji’s altar-figure almost exactly. 

“So my aji named me for Durga when I was born, in her image; and then the pack claimed me, and Named me in Durga’s line… and never have I felt more truly and entirely myself, as I did in that moment, hearing those names -- _my_ names. Tenzing Lumanti tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi, Tharkay tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi -- it’s -- they’re _my names,_ it’s me, it’s _me._

“At sunset I stood before an assembly of dragons and sang as a woman, attired in the tradition of my own people; adorned in so much treasure it would have put Aglaea to shame, may perhaps even have satisfied Temeraire -- including _your_ hair-ornaments, by-the-by -- and never have I felt more myself. 

“And by sunup I was stripped of all adornments except the hair-ornaments, yours and mine, and I sat by the fire and sang as a man, attired in the tradition of my own people; and I wore my flying-coat, the one from Temeraire, the one that fits _just_ like the one you made… and never have I felt more myself. And all night, in between, I was… I was me, I was never not me, I was me _the whole time.”_

“As if the names were your poles, and you the rich brown earth itself: encompassing both and more, and neither the lesser,” whispered Laurence, eyes glowing with -- with _reverence._

“I -- yes,” said Tharkay wonderingly. “Yes, exactly.” 

“You honor me, Tenzing.” Oh -- oh, how -- those eyes were so very, _very_ bright. “Tenzing, Tenzing: Cassandra, Athena, Iris, Calliope, Nike, Gaea, Lumanti, Tenzing.” 

“I’d like to kiss you again, I think,” said Tharkay. 

“I’d like that very much.” Laurence tilted his face up, and there was no further speaking for a few moments. “And tlkᵜilniyoutt°Khusi -- your aji’s name? your own Singer?” he asked when they were through. 

“Exactly -- so you’d be Admiral Laurence tlkᵜilniyoutt°Bennington, after the Durzagh tradition; for it’s been made very clear to me that one’s Makers are always distinct from one’s Singer, else it might be your mother, I should think. And your home-name would be William tlkᵜilniyoutt° -- do I know your grandfather’s given name?” 

“Tenzing.” 

“I’m certain it isn’t.” 

“No, I -- I’m William tlkᵜilniyoutt°Tenzing. Or -- or Lumanti, or Tharkay Cloudspeaky, if you like.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“How does it go, the one Temeraire told me… ‘You sprang into the world with memory… who kept you whole, to sing? And their voice spun your thoughts into truth?’” 

“‘Whose breath blew your spark to flame, and drew you into the world with love.’” His throat was tight. 

“Yes,” said Laurence. “Yes, exactly. That was you, that was _you:_ when I had no idea who I was, it was _you_ who… it was _your name,_ and -- and then you told me all those stories, _my own_ stories, and you were the only one who _could:_ the only one who _knew_ me, not the gentleman but _me_ \-- like, like your aji -- and -- and -- and it would be my honor to be called yours, Tenzing Lumanti, if you’ll have me.” He paused, and considered it a moment. “Well, and my grandda’s, I suppose, if that's the tradition; and yet still it renders me no less yours, yours, I would name myself ever yours.” 

“Ghhhhrrrrrrrk,” said Tharkay, and began to cry. 

Would they ever be able to kiss without weeping? Surely, one day -- maybe even one day soon; but it was not this day, no -- not this day, not this night. 

“Am I to understand, then,” said Laurence as they separated once more, wiping at his eyes, “that you appeared before the dragon-throng attired as Lumanti Cloudspeaky, in a queen’s ransom of gold and jewels; and Temeraire and I both _missed it?”_

“You were rather busy winning the war, as I recall. Gong Su was there; he can tell you all about it.” 

“Somehow I think Temeraire will find that a worse betrayal.” 

“Hm, you’re probably right -- let’s never tell him.” Watery laughter, from the both of them. 

Laurence found Tharkay’s hand, wove their fingers together and brought them to his lips, placing his mouth _just_ at the base of Tharkay's thumbnail. “I -- you -- if you, might I… might we -- that is to say, perhaps we might… dine?” 

“You want to _dine_ with me,” said Tharkay, just to be certain. “As Lumanti.” 

“Yes.” 

“Ah, my Lord Admiral: you want to see me _dressed_ for you, in all my finery and adornments.” 

_“Yes.”_ Laurence was breathless. 

“... why?” It came out much smaller than intended, somehow. 

Immediately: “Because I love you.” Ah, well, in _that_ case... “Because I want to know you, _all_ of you.” It was an answer which earned Laurence another round of very thorough kisses. 

“All right, then, my sailor,” Tharkay purred, once she was sated for the nonce. “One evening soon you will dress in your finest, and I shall do the same; and you may escort me to dinner as your proper Newa bride.” 

Laurence flipped their positions, surprising a laugh from Tharkay as she found herself tossed onto her back on the settee: held and touched, _seen_ and _cherished._ “You honor me, my lady,” said Laurence, and kissed her again, deeply. 

She managed to break off long enough to gasp out, “The dressing-gown --” for he had deposited her directly on top of Temeraire’s name-offering. 

_“Hang_ the dressing-gown,” said Laurence with great feeling. 

_“You_ hang the dressing-gown.” Tharkay smiled, and tilted her head toward the bedroom door. “The armoire is through there.” 

  
  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tharkay: hey let’s wake ‘n’ bake  
> Laurence: a thouSAND TIMES YES  
> Laurence: also, bottomless brunch  
> Tharkay: i’ve never been more in love 
> 
> Laurence: *emotional honesty and vulnerability*  
> Tharkay: yeah i’m gonna shut your beautiful mouth by kissing it right off your face 
> 
> Tharkay: *emotional honesty and vulnerability*  
> Laurence: i’ve never been more in love 
> 
> *** 
> 
> References:
> 
> The Battle of the Trees / Taliesin / Gwydion bit is real Welsh mythology and in fact the book is ON THE INTERNET ARCHIVE (the tree-battle starts on page 27) (also below is a semblance of an actual citation lol) 
> 
> Evans, J. Gwenogvryn. ”Poems from the Book of Taliesin.” Tremvan : Llambedrog, N. Wales; 1915. Digitizing sponsor: MSN; contributor: University of California Libraries. https://archive.org/stream/poemsfrombookoft00evan#page/27/mode/2up 
> 
> The mapping bits are the inevitable result of three decades spent sleeping on riverbanks and fucking around in karst formations (though to be fair idk if the plants are different in England, so) 
> 
> <3


	11. The Bedchamber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi after the longest posting break since chapter 1 of Gravity of Empire! 
> 
> Turns out a) 150k+ words really takes it outta you so like I needed some time away and b) i needed to be in a *very* specific emotional place to work on this chapter, lol, so it came out in dribs and drabs 
> 
> Anyway, the editing song for this was Down on Me by Sudan Archives and I bet you can’t guess what it’s about

#  **The Bedchamber ;**

**or,**

**a sanctuary**

*******

  
  
  


“Oh,” said Laurence. “Oh, it’s -- it’s just like --” 

“Yes.” Tharkay lounged on the chaise, enjoying the view as Laurence stood dumbstruck in the doorway. “Never have I felt so protected, habibi, than when I woke to you in that tent. It --” she swallowed, and drew the offering-blanket closer around her shoulders. “It helps with the dreams even now, still, to -- to wake to the tent, a bit.” 

Something was sparkling on Laurence’s cheek. “Tenzing.” And then he had crossed the room in a waft of blooming jasmine, and he was bending down to kiss her -- tenderly, so _fucking tenderly --_ dressing-gown still clutched in one hand, cradling her upturned face in the other. “Tenzing, _Tenzing.”_

“Yes, well.” Oh, it felt astoundingly -- drenchingly, _heartbreakingly_ good to be held like this, here and now. “This is _much_ better, to be honest.” 

Laurence pressed their foreheads together. “I pray you might grant me the chance to ensure you wake to love, as you deserve, all our lives long.”

It struck some hidden chord deep within -- resonating like a harpstring, like a tuning fork: shivers were flooding Tharkay’s entire body one after another, in rolling waves -- “Fuck,” he croaked. _“Fuck,_ Will, you -- I,” and, giving up, wound his hands into Laurence’s hair and dragged him down for another kiss -- and then another, and another, and another, before -- 

\-- _don’t go --_

\-- one more, which turned into another three or four, and then another, and -- and then _one_ more, just -- no, two more, before Tharkay finally found her voice again. “Now, I believe I instructed you to hang the dressing-gown,” she murmured; and casting her line-blessing around Laurence’s neck continued, “and you may lay this upon the altar, while you’re at it.” 

“Gladly, my love.” Laurence clutched the pendant to his chest. “Willingly, fervently, ardently, you honor me.” 

A smile -- that now near-constant companion -- drew itself across Tharkay’s face. “Look who’s got verses.” 

“Due solely to your influence, I’m sure, O Singer beloved mine -- and all the _books,”_ said Laurence as he straightened, eye caught by their surroundings once more. “I knew it would be an Alexandria, but never could I have foreseen -- these are _yours,_ aren’t they? I recognize them, some of them -- _many,_ in fact, and yet it is still not even a _fraction_ of -- you are a wonder, my compass, plain and true.” 

Tharkay arched back, stretching, particularly enjoying the view now from behind as Laurence wandered the bedchamber. “You were present for a good portion of them, my anchor -- pick any you like from the last decade or so and there’s sure to be mention of you, somewhere.” 

The figure Laurence cut against the bookshelves was beyond anything she’d ever dreamt: river-green silk like flowing waves, silver-gold hair like flower offerings, sea-sky eyes full of love as they moved over _all_ of her -- her history, _their_ history, his _stories…_ and then Laurence selected a volume, took it down from its place and brought it to her, and _oh:_ she knew at once which log it was, knew _exactly_ where he might be found in it. 

“Hmm, let’s see…” She held the book close to her nose and paged through until -- “Ah, here we are: ‘Today Temeraire’s captain tried to copy my maps. I told him to go fuck himself, though I’m not sure he quite underst--” 

Laurence grabbed for the log, laughing. “It does _not_ say that!” 

“Well, you can’t read it, can you, so you’ll just have to -- but here, see for yourself, if you like.” And she handed it over, open to a page filled not with notes from the desert but -- 

_\-- of course he’d drawn Laurence’s foot: its delicate vulnerable arch, the clear strong lines of the tendons --_

“Oh.” Sea-sky eyes full of love, reflecting watery lamplight. “Oh, is this --?” 

Tharkay nodded. “I was about to tear out the page when you -- well. And I was rather preoccupied, after that.” And then he’d chosen to leave it in -- he didn’t have to say it; Will _knew_ him. 

For all Laurence was no longer shaking with anxious panic, his kisses were still tentative: first moving in so their noses brushed, sipping one another’s air -- slowly, so _deliciously_ slowly; they had time to _savor_ this -- and then a cautious hand, anchoring itself in Tharkay’s hair as Laurence pressed his lips first to one side of his mouth, and then the other -- softly, precisely: so _fucking_ precisely -- and then his upper lip, in the center; and then the lower -- oh, _dearest_ Laurence, who even _kissed_ with exacting care: _one, two, three, four --_

\-- _we will weather all storms --_

\-- the fifth kiss was a thunderclap, or else an avalanche: they came together with a ferocity that surprised even Tharkay, a little -- forced a groan from his throat, made him reach for Laurence in turn and -- _please, please, please yes --_ tongues and teeth, gentle-rough hands and tender crashing mouths -- the feeling of their lips meeting, over and over again -- parting only to meld once more, separating only to rejoin -- ebbing, flowing together in rhythm: waves washing out, tides flowing in. 

Fuck, he wanted -- wanted to, wanted to -- oh, _please --_ “Do you plan to hang the dressing-gown, my sailor?” Tharkay panted. “Only I’d very much like for you to undress me, and I expect you’ll need both hands for that.” 

Laurence moaned softly, just the once -- _fuck_ yes -- and then tore himself away, got up and turned to cross the room. 

Ohhhh... 

_Oh._

Oh, this was -- it was, he -- oh, what a -- and the way he _moved:_ with an aviator’s balance, a warrior’s grace… 

“D’you know, Will,” Tharkay mused, entranced, “your rear end is a work of art. I could sing odes to it for days -- as a matter of fact I probably will, eventually. All that power and strength, that _curve --_ mmph.” 

The tips of Laurence’s ears were very, very pink as he reached into the wardrobe. 

“Could you write a function for it, do you think? A higher-degree polynomial, on the Cartesian plane -- no, no, that’s for _flat_ lines. The radius and angle theta of the arc, then, in polar measures, along three axes; _that’s_ it -- ” 

And now Laurence was leaning over, _just_ the slightest bit… ohhhh, yes, yes, _fuck_ yes. 

“Fucking _Christ,_ just look at you: an equation which describes that wonderful _shape_ in all its lovely dimensions? Stars above and sea below, I cannot imagine a more beautiful expression of truth.” 

_“Ten_ zing!” Ha, that didn’t take long: it hadn’t been this easy to fluster him in years. 

“Yes? Oh, you’ve turned back around -- pity, but at least now I get to look upon your face: I do enjoy making you blush.” 

Laurence huffed. “You’ve made a study of it long enough.” 

“Can you blame me for wanting to explore this new avenue? I hardly ever get a rise out of you, anymore.” He grinned and winked. “And besides, I much prefer _these_ rises to goading you over systems of government.” 

“Yes, well, I shall likewise learn to deprive you of the satisfaction in this regard soon enough, I’m sure.” And there it was, that smoothing-my-ruffled-feathers voice, the cut-glass consonants: time for the final thrust. 

“That’s very good to know, my heart’s anchor: I look forward to the day when hearing yourself sincerely complimented causes you neither embarrassment nor shame.” 

“You --” Laurence opened his mouth only to close it, shaking his head. “I can’t win, can I.” 

“No.” Tharkay allowed a wide, wicked smile to make its way across his face and caught Laurence’s eye -- pinning him in it, holding him there. “But doesn’t it feel good when I best you?” And Laurence’s only response was to whine a little, high in his throat, jaw clenched -- oh, this was going to be _fun._ “Go lay the line-blessing so you can come back to me.” 

“Yes, my -- at once, yes.” Laurence hastened to the alcove in the corner, the tips of his ears now positively scarlet -- ohhhh, oh _yes:_ this was going to be very, _very_ fun. “This is --?” 

“Yes,” said Tharkay, draping herself over the back of the chaise to watch. “You see the figures, there? Durga is in the center, flanked by Visnu and Siva. They were my aji’s.” 

“They _do_ match.” Laurence was looking from the figures to the pendant he held. “My lady mother,” he murmured, and kissed the figure before setting it on the altar, and -- and then Laurence bowed his head, hands folded neatly in front of him, eyes closed. 

It was -- the tableau, it, and -- his altar, his aji, his _home:_ that Tharkay had them at all, let alone someone to _share_ them with -- and, and Laurence had -- had just -- just -- “I love you.” It spilled from heart to mouth unchecked. “Like mountains and rivers, like -- agape, my sailor, I -- I just, I love you.” 

“That’s --” rasped Laurence, raising his head, and had to clear his throat. “That’s very fortunate, my compass, for I’m afraid _I’m_ rather in love with -- you _kept_ this?” He had caught sight of the thread-map: it hung across the top of the alcove, like prayers. 

Tharkay smiled. “Of course I kept it -- until very recently it was the loveliest gift I have ever received. I had a devil of a time figuring it out, and then once I did I knew you had to have done it yourself -- only _you_ could have made such a thing, and you _made_ it for _me,_ it could _only_ have been for _me…”_ She heaved a sigh worthy of Arkady. “And then Pemberton confirmed it, said you worked on it for weeks.”

“Mrs. Pem--?” Laurence cut himself off. “Of _course._ I should have known.” 

“What, you didn’t think I’d let just _anybody_ replace me, did you?” 

“It seems obvious, now I’ve thought to think about it; but I hadn’t, before. Tenzing, Lumanti, you -- you -- I love you.” It was Laurence’s turn to speak helplessly, it seemed. “I just, I love you.” 

“That’s very fortunate, my sailor, for I’m afraid _I’m_ rather in love with _you.”_ She got up from the chaise and went to Laurence to embrace him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder: oh, it felt so _good._ “As for the rest of what you see here, mmmmm… the amulet is from Ruth, Sara’s daughter: she decided I needed protection from the Evil Eye, at my most recent stay. Of course I gave it straight into her mother’s keeping with the rest of my things; but the protection held nevertheless, it seems, for here we are.” He squeezed Laurence around the waist, kissed his ear. “The books are my aji’s, some of them; the rest are volumes of poetry and music, stories and songs -- we call them mangal-kavya, among other things -- from my friends in Bengal and Assam. Some we sang together, some we wrote, some we -- well. That’s a story in itself, really.” 

“I have heard you speak of associates and colleagues, during that assignment,” said Laurence, in his way. 

“They _were_ associates, at first. You’d take to them like -- well, like a sailor to the sea.” Tharkay took down the first volume and flipped to the inscriptions, pointing out each in turn. “Mirza is akin to me in many ways; he even spoke a bit of my mother tongue. We’d often wax lyrical together about poetry -- or wax poetic about lyrics -- and to the others’ perpetual exasperation, naturally. Kanta resembles Demane, prickly and proud; and Preeti -- well. Preeti is reminiscent enough of Temeraire that you’d fall for her even faster than I did, I think.” 

Laurence had gone very still. “I have no right to jealousy,” he said evenly. “And yet.” 

“Please.” Tharkay couldn’t resist an eye roll. “As if you didn’t run off to your duchess the moment we touched down on English soil.” 

“I have,” repeated Laurence, turning around to face him, “no right to jealousy.” His eyes were soft: not hiding his pain, no, but neither was he expecting anything for it. 

Tharkay sighed -- he could think of Laurence and Roland together without distress, most of the time; but tonight everything was so new, and he and Laurence were both so -- so _raw…_ and it was all right, it was _all right_ because they were _both_ in this vulnerable place, this place of aching for something they dared not want. “You have every right to your feelings, Will. We cannot control these seas, only how we navigate them.” He kissed Laurence’s hairline, his temple; he kissed the creases at the corner of his eye, the wiry silver hairs at the edge of his eyebrow. “Sail your tides of jealousy, habibi, as I must sail mine -- we have each of us led full and separate lives, for all they are intertwined. And when those waves rise, as they will, remind yourself that not even my aji ever named me _thrice.”_ His voice broke on the last word, but it was all right. 

It was all right, because they were here _together._

This, this, _this:_ this feeling of being -- being embraced, being _held_ fast as an anchor-line -- resting together in _safety_ with someone who knew him, someone who _saw_ him, someone whose heartbeat had sustained him -- oh, it was… it was, it was -- 

\-- _we’ll stay here tonight, just like this, and in the morning --_

\-- it was the exact feeling he’d impressed into his core that last night in Sydney, not knowing when or whether he might ever feel it again -- wanting to hoard and shelter it, secret it away against the knowledge that it might well be the last time… 

And now they were _here._ Here, here together, here and _home,_ and Tharkay was cradled close to a steady heartbeat; held in security, in safety, in _love --_ steadfast arms holding him tight, a solid weight to lean against, a place to rest his head: a place to _rest._

“It was Jane’s contrasting example which made me recognize the nature of our love, yours and mine -- the _strength_ of it.” Laurence’s fingers were threading into his hair, against his scalp, mmmmm -- _don’t ever stop touching me, please._ “How deeply I had come to love you, how _well_ you have loved me; the, the _care_ with which we have tended to one another, all these years…” 

_Jane’s contrasting example --_ oh, this was _not_ a story for Pemberton, not at all: in fact Tharkay was rather glad he hadn’t witnessed it. “I sorrow to think the epiphany came under such circumstances, my sailor; for you deserve care in _all_ your relations regardless of their nature, and yet I find I cannot bring myself to regret the result.” 

Laurence raised Tharkay’s fingertips to his lips. “Never could I regret that which brings me to you.” 

Tharkay kissed their clasped hands and drew Laurence’s arms around his waist, leading him to stand before the altar once more. 

\-- _there is darkness under the butter-lamp, though --_

A spark, now blown to flame; a wick in its clay dish, now lit and placed before the figures -- _I shall perform arati --_ and then the incense: sandalwood smoke. 

“I -- we, they -- they _prayed_ for you, Preeti and the rest.” 

_\-- it brings light to distant --_

“In Kolkata, when I received your letter, I was -- a little worried.” There was no need to specify which: _if I am to perish here…_ “And they, they sat up with me and -- and they didn’t _know_ you, didn’t know anything about -- about any of it, but they saw that I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think, couldn’t _breathe,_ so they -- and that’s when I learned all those mudras you love to tease me about, my anchor, because they, they made me --” a snuffle of a laugh, through the tears “-- all night, all through the night, and when the dawn came we danced a prayer for you, we four: I taught them the song, in Newari, and they created the steps, and -- and together we prayed for you, we prayed you’d find your way.” She wiped at her eyes. “I have named them friends ever since.” 

Lips to her hair, a place to rest her head: a place to _rest,_ together, in safety. Here, here, here -- they were here _together._ They were _here,_ together. 

“When I found those maps, I thought we were saved.” Laurence’s voice rumbled right through her from all the places they touched: everywhere, everywhere, Laurence was all around her, Laurence had _enfolded_ her… “But my relief soon soured, for I couldn’t _read_ them: I couldn’t make sense of the notation. It -- it put me in mind of first time I saw your log-sketches in the desert; it was like that, it was _just_ like that: it was abundantly clear that someone knew _exactly_ what they were doing, was an expert in the craft, and yet I couldn’t _understand…_

“But then… do you remember the story you told me in Sydney, the one with the canoe? I was -- well, I was _trying_ to tell it, one night when spirits were low -- about how the great hero found his way through unknown waters, by scattering stars across the ocean that was also the sky? and how he’d left the boat & anchor behind, so his people could navigate by them? But of course I could never tell it like you could; the main problem being that I could never remember the man’s _name --_ Ta-something, isn’t it?” 

Tharkay smiled. “Tama Rereti.” 

“Yes! _\--_ blast it, if only -- well, but you and I were rather deep into our cups by the time you got to that tale, as I recall. In any case, I could not for the life of me come up with it at the time, but Sipho insisted we give him a name, and Temeraire took a shine to the idea -- and, well, one thing led to another -- and before I knew it the lesson they had taken was ‘Tata Tharkay hung the stars so we might find our way.’” 

\-- _the most outlandish feats and abilities to your name --_

“The next morning I went back to the maps, and… and I looked at them, _really_ looked, and finally realized that they _weren’t_ pirate maps at all: they were the maps of those wayfinding star-people from the _story…_ and then I looked a third time and saw that, no, right, they very much _were_ pirate maps, of course; _and in addition_ the captain at least must have been one of those celestial navigators, to have -- because the _coordinates,_ they were _polar:_ circular measures, given relative to the _Southern Cross --_ it, they, they, they must have named it the Anchor because _it is the fixed point in the sky,_ as is this hemisphere’s the North Star -- which I had _known,_ of course, but I hadn’t quite, quite _internalized,_ I suppose; for I had been trying to read the course-notes as if they’d been charted based on _English_ meridians and the dead reckoning I’d learnt from the Royal Navy when _really_ I should have been thinking of how the maps might be drawn by someone _from the Southern Hemisphere --_ a different kind of wayfinding, another perspective: someone whose Pole Star was _entirely opposite_ my own… 

“We followed you across the ocean, my compass: even from the other side of the world, you led me to my guiding stars. You pointed me the way to truth -- showed me new realities: the patterns that had been there all along, but which I could see only if I found a way to step outside myself and conceive a context, a _paradigm_ other than the one I’d been taught. 

“We followed your stories: you taught me how to find them, you showed me how to _grow._ And even now when I dream of stars, Tenzing, I always see them reflected in your eyes.” 

No, tonight was decidedly _not_ the night for kissing without weeping. 

“And then you, my wonderful weaver,” Tharkay finally whispered, throat tight, “rendered those stars in thread: tied them into all those knots, from the ship, and offered me the constellation itself.” 

“Yes. Yes, yes -- my compass, my lodestone, my living truth.” Laurence kissed him again, and again -- _oh dearest, oh beloved_ \-- and then thrice more times, before -- “How did you finally solve it?” 

“The camelopards were the key -- I suppose it was a translation?” 

A nod. “Lady Lethabo was good enough to give me the story; in the language of the Tswana it is Diluthwa.” 

“You must tell it to me sometime.” 

“I am at your service.” Laurence had wicked smiles of his own, it seemed, smiles which tasted of buttercream and joy when Tharkay claimed them for herself. 

“Is that a fact,” said Tharkay into their kiss. “Tell me more.”

“Chakana, Diluthwa, Crux: so many names.” Ohhh, Laurence’s smile tasted of spring watercress, of mineral-tart wine -- “So many stories, all of them true: Tharkay, Lumanti, Tenzing, my love.” 

Fuck, oh fuck, ohhh _fuuuuuuck_ \-- “Te Punga: my anchor,” Tharkay whispered. “My brilliant sailor, my anchor of stars -- come here, Will, come _here,”_ and he drew Laurence down to kiss that _wonderful_ mouth again: once, then twice -- and then three more times. 

“What happens now?” Well, and on the rare occasion Laurence chose to ask questions, he certainly made them count. 

“Now?” Tharkay tugged Laurence by the hand, led him back to the chaise. “Now, beloved, you may at last undress me.” He sat with a smile, and Laurence -- 

\-- _I shall do perfectly well here --_

Laurence knelt on the floor before him. 

\-- _live --_

For a long while Tharkay did nothing but grip Laurence’s jaw in one hand and devour him with kiss after open-mouthed kiss: sliding his tongue past petal-soft lips, warm and welcoming, oh -- oh, fuck, fuck _yes --_

\-- _we are here, we are ourselves --_

Her tapalan and shirt were undone already; now Laurence slid his hands down her arms, slid it all off and laid it aside -- and then his mouth was back on her _neck,_ and -- “Ohhhhhhh _fuck,_ Will.” Her eyes rolled. 

\-- _we deserve this --_

And now Laurence was drawing her slippers off, one after the other; and Tharkay wiggled her toes, right in his face -- and Laurence smiled, he _laughed,_ and kissed the arch of her foot. 

“Can you feel how much I want you, Tenzing?” Oh _fuck,_ oh fuck, ohhh holy -- Laurence had now taken her foot and pressed it -- pressed it to -- and ohhhh, _fuck,_ she very much _could_ feel how much he wanted her, and _\--_ “Can you feel what it does to me, to know that I am not merely permitted but _invited_ to touch you this way? To know that you --” Laurence’s voice cracked a little, a hairline fracture only -- “to know that you want _me?”_

Tharkay was falling, falling forward into endless blue, like sunlight shining through the sea... 

“Tenzing, Lumanti, _Tenzing:_ you are love and beauty incarnate; I would devote the rest of my days to bringing you ease,” said Laurence. “Your bliss is my sunrise; your truth _nourishes_ me --” 

“Haaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh,” fuck, oh _fuck,_ that _mouth --_

Gentle-rough hands were tugging at Tharkay’s trousers and drawers; and then she’d lifted her hips for Laurence to draw them the rest of the way off -- so he could lay them aside and kiss his way up her leg: starting with the back of her heel, the tendon there -- then the blade of her shin-bone, the base of her calf -- and now just behind her knee -- putting his tongue to the scar from the palace baths, eyes still steady as an anchor-line as he moved up, up, up -- and Tharkay let her legs fall open to receive him, clad now only in the silk chemise from Peking. 

“Will.” Her breath was unsteady. “Will. _Will.”_

Laurence lifted the hem of the chemise, and then looked up, and -- and very deliberately brought Tharkay’s hands to his hair. 

Tharkay whimpered, _just_ a bit. 

“It brought me to the brink of crisis to give you this, in Russia.” Ohhhhhhh, _fuck,_ his _mouth…_ “I want you to fill me with your joy, Tenzing. I want to taste your pleasure, dripping down the back of my throat.” 

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck -- she took his mouth with hers, _had_ to take his mouth, needed it like salt, like _air;_ and then -- “Get up,” she ordered. “Rise, Will, get off your knees -- you, your knees, we’re too, you won’t be -- come here, old man, come up here and -- yes, like that, just like that: lay back, lay back, lay back, beloved, we -- we recline, here. We recline because we are at ease, we are safe here -- here in our own home, safe -- _safe --”_ and he straddled Laurence’s hips to kiss him again, before -- 

\-- _Tenzing, may I --_

“I’m going to fuck your mouth now, ashaya.” Tharkay took himself in hand, tapped his most sensitive parts against the firm line of Laurence’s jaw, moving closer and closer toward those _lips,_ those petal-soft lips which were now opening like roses: _blooming_ for him… oh fuck, fuuuuuuck, _fuck._ “With your permission?” he gasped out, poised at the point of entry -- and Laurence responded by doing something with his _tongue,_ something which caused Tharkay’s eyes to roll back in his head, a high keen escaping his throat. “Hnnnnnnnnnnnggggggghhhhh -- haaaahhhhh, ah, fuck, _fuck,_ Will.” He grabbed for Laurence’s hand, placed it at his own hip. “Pray keep me informed of your state, be-- aaaaaaiiiiiiihhh, ahhhnnn, hhnnnnnnnnffffffgggggghhhhhh _ahhhh…”_ for Laurence had _pulled_ him forward, had surged up to take him in -- and now Laurence was gripping his hip, fingers digging into the muscles of his back as down below he -- with his _mouth,_ he -- and Tharkay got the idea, yes -- got the idea, and began to roll his hips. 

Laurence immediately groaned assent -- and fuck, _fuck,_ it went right through him -- ohhh, the slow slick drag; the feeling of himself slipping into Laurence’s hot and eager mouth, over and over -- “Laurence,” his voice was wavering, unsteady -- “ya’t’hy’la’ashayantlሄ, habibi, beloved mine, you -- you have loved me into myself, you have loved me truly and well, you have shown -- you have given me, I --” 

In and out, in and out -- slow, delicious -- _like the waves --_

“I am myself in, in your -- you, I -- you _see_ me, you _saw_ me and you, you _anchored_ me and kept me --” Tharkay picked up speed, _just_ a little -- gripped Laurence’s hair and -- and slid _deeper,_ drove his hips with steadily increasing force _\--_ “you _tied_ me to myself, so -- so that I was never not myself, so I could _be_ myself --” oh, those _eyes,_ he was falling forward into Laurence’s eyes, into spring-blue wells of endless love, “-- so I could _shine,_ so I was unafraid to reflect and -- and refract, to find the truth of myself: my _own_ truths, my _own_ colors, my, my, _fuck --_ you are _my_ constant, my balance, my _water-light --_ ” he was dimly aware of having lapsed into his mother tongue at some point, though it was impossible to say when. “My sea, my sailor, my wave, my -- my ever-flowing river, my love like mountains, my love, my love, my _love --”_

Two light taps, in quick succession, at his hip -- Tharkay eased up immediately: pulled himself from Laurence’s mouth, sat back on his heels and leaned forward to put his own mouth to Laurence’s ear, to inhale the scent of jasmine-offerings: of sacred rites, of home and safety and _love,_ while Laurence caught his breath. 

“Yes, that’s it, Will, breathe, breathe --” and somewhere in the wisps of her mind Tharkay registered that she was still speaking Newari, but it was all right, it was all right because he knew Laurence understood him anyway, even without knowing the words -- “You are so beautiful, you are so true, you are ever _true,_ you are a fixed point in the sky, a cardinal direction, a pole-star -- my brightest star, my anchor-line, my heart’s _anchor,_ breathe, _yes_ beloved, breathe, breathe, breathe…” 

\-- _like this, like the waves --_

And soon Laurence’s hands were tugging at her hips again; Tharkay raised herself up to -- “Haaaaaannnnhhhhhhhh Laurence, fuck, _fuck,_ you’re -- my, my, mine -- _mine,_ you are -- I am, we are here -- nnnnnnnnnggggghhhhhhhhhh, hrrrnnnnnhhhhhhh, you -- _aaaaiiiiiihhhhhh --”_ for Laurence had wound one hand into Tharkay’s hair and _pulled,_ strong and steady, while his other hand was sliding beneath the chemise, _all_ over her skin -- up and down her back, her front: palming the muscles of her chest, taking a nipple between thumb and forefinger and -- and -- “Aggghhhhhffffff _fffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,_ Will, Will, Will, _Will --”_ and she -- she found Laurence’s hand and brought it to her mouth, took two of his fingers in and --

Laurence’s groan rippled through her once more, made her moan around Laurence’s fingers in turn as she -- with her mouth, she -- she took him in, she _wanted_ to take him in, she wanted -- she wanted -- “You, you, Will, you -- you, just you -- fuck, fuck, I -- you --” and he bent forward _just_ the slightest bit, to open himself for it, and then he took Laurence’s hand from his mouth and -- 

_\-- there is no shame to be had here --_

\-- and soon Tharkay was rocking forward into Laurence’s mouth and backward against his fingers, his strong and capable _hand,_ and -- and oh, _fuck,_ Laurence was touching him _everywhere:_ enveloping him with heat and _pleasure,_ oh, _oh,_ she was drowning in it, she was falling upward into ecstatic joy, she was held and touched, loved right down to the root -- to the -- to the -- fuck, her eyes were rolling; she could no longer focus on Laurence’s face -- it was starting, it was _starting,_ she could _feel_ it, gathering from the place where Laurence’s fingers touched her, from where his mouth was _taking her in_ \-- and oh, _oh,_ Laurence had _asked_ for this, he had wanted it, had wanted to _taste…_

“Love, love, love, Will, _Will,_ I’m,” 

_\-- we deserve to feel good --_

\-- and Tharkay relinquished all control: dropped every last shield he’d ever carried, and let the wave take -- 

_\-- yes --_

Oh, oh fuck oh fuck ohhh 

_\-- growing, ever --_

Shuddering, fluttering -- 

_\-- delight --_

flooding 

_\-- delight in knowing --_

color, a smile: joy, love, bliss, joy, love, blisslove joybliss -- 

_\-- infinite new truths within--_

Here and pleasure and here and this

_\-- single beam of --_

_here_ and all, all, all of -- all of -- _all,_ all -- 

\-- _Cassandra Athena Calliope Iris Nike Gaea Lumanti Tenzing Lumanti Tenzing Tenzing Tenzing your luminous self --_

t’hy’la dearest beloved 

_\-- you honor me --_

yes 

yes

y-- 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Are you well?” 

Was -- “Hnnnwhhhh?” _Breathe. Breathe -- breathe, catch it, catch it, catch your, breathe it, breathe, like the waves, like the -- in and out, like the waves, ohhhhhhh, breathe._

“Ah.” Laurence’s smile could only be called _smug --_ well, and that was all right: it was well-deserved. 

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

Tharkay’s thigh muscles gave out; she folded herself down, wanting -- wanting, please -- _hold me, please, please --_ and Laurence’s arms were pulling her in, guiding her head down onto his shoulder, one warm hand cradling the back of her neck -- Tharkay pressed his lips to Laurence’s neck and breathed, breathed, breathed, breathed, breathed. 

Heartbeat and breath: rock and wind, here, together, steadfast and true -- treasured and cherished -- witnessed and loved -- and -- and -- “You’ve sucked the coherence right out of me, my sailor.”

“Hm. I must set myself to learning Newari,” replied Laurence, and threaded their fingers together. 

“Oh.” He wiped at his face -- when had he been weeping? “Right, it -- it seems you sucked the English out, too.” 

“Tenzing, you’re -- I can’t -- please, are you, are you well?” 

Tharkay let out a watery chuckle, and then chose to find Laurence’s lips rather than trying to find words. 

Pleasure and joy, freely shared -- given by someone who _knew_ him, through and through: intimacy. Shared heat, together here, like this -- held. Hands, held. Treasured, cherished, precious. Yes -- yes, yes -- please, yes. “Treasured,” she whispered into their kiss. “Cherished, precious. Beloved. Was that English?” 

“Yes?” 

“Excellent.” What a relief, to know that her wits weren’t _permanently_ scattered to the winds; Tharkay captured Laurence’s mouth again. “You -- I treasure, cherish -- you, you are so precious, so precious to me, Will. Just you, as yourself -- you, you, you --” ohh, _fuck,_ was that -- he could, he could _taste_ \-- ohhhhh -- “Fuck, you taste _so_ good, like this.” He nibbled at Laurence’s lower lip. “Get on the bed.” 

“And if I don't?” The tone was playfully defiant, but underneath there was a spark of… worry, or uncertainty? 

Tharkay brushed their noses together. “Never, never, never, my heart’s anchor,” she whispered, “would I wish you to take any action in this chamber to which you are the barest shred uncertain of your wholehearted commitment and enthusiasm.” He dropped another kiss to Laurence’s lips. “Do you understand?” 

“Mm-hmmmmmmmm…” it was more of a moan than a hum of assent, but certainly it counted. 

Tharkay began to roll her hips -- riding, sliding against -- “And, as you know, I encourage you to question all things, at all times, including and _especially_ me,” she continued in precise crystal, and Laurence moaned again. “That said, beloved, I regret to inform you that you are asking the wrong question.” 

“Beg pardon?” Laurence gasped out -- oh, _dearest_ Will and his manners. 

“Well, habibi, you asked what happens if you don’t get on the bed.” 

“Mmnhhhyesss --?” 

“But, Will,” and here Tharkay pulled back to pin him with his gaze, “don’t you want to find out what happens if you do?” 

“Nnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhhhnghhhh,” said Laurence, and bucked upward in an involuntary thrust. 

Tharkay smiled. “Get on the bed.” 

The sheer sensory input of lying naked with Laurence on silk sheets was enough to scatter her wits to the four winds once more. For all they had bunked together for more than half a decade, there had never been -- been _world_ enough, or _time,_ or -- or, or -- for rolling around in bed together was something _lovers_ did, yes: touching one another aaa’AAArrrcq, for no other purpose than the _pleasure_ of it, for the feeling of skin on leagues and leagues of warm blessed skin -- all of the parts and places they knew so very intimately, on one another’s bodies: the great sunburst etched beneath Laurence’s ribs, from Vilna; the ridges on his back, from the Tswana; all of the hard burls in his neck and shoulders, which Tharkay had dug his knuckles into night after night after freezing night, in Russia, so that Laurence’s headaches might recede enough to let him sleep… 

Bodies: held against one another, touching everywhere they could -- legs intertwining, hands traveling _everywhere,_ just to feel -- just to feel -- just to feel this, this, this. 

And, of course, the kisses. Was someone weeping? 

What a silly question. 

“Will,” Tharkay murmured after a while. “Is this -- is this all right? Are _you_ well, are you --?” 

“I… yes, I -- I had never thought -- never, never _realized,_ but -- it can feel like this? You and I, for, it -- it can be thus? And we can, for as long as we --?” 

“Yes, my lovely tailor.” Joy, bubbling over. “We can have this: we _deserve_ this.” And she kissed him again, chasing that _taste:_ the taste of herself, in Laurence’s mouth; the taste of pleasure given and received -- the taste of pleasure shared. 

Soon she had pushed Laurence back onto the pillows and put her mouth to his jaw, then his neck -- biting at the beating pulse: gently, gently, _ever_ so gently -- working her way around to the other side while she shifted to settle herself against him: bracing one thigh between the both of his, to give him something to grind onto -- lifting Laurence’s legs up to wrap around her hips -- _ohhhh, fuck_ \-- 

They moved together like that, for a time -- not _fucking,_ quite, but something like -- and then Tharkay reached down to take them both in hand. 

“Tenzing,” Laurence gasped. “I -- I think it unlikely that I shall -- not, not again tonight, if --” 

Tharkay eased up immediately: sat back on his heels to look Laurence in the face, rested a hand on his knee. “That’s quite all right; crisis need not be the primary objective: I should still very much like to bring you pleasure, ya’sailor’ashayantlxሄ, if you desire it.” 

“Is that -- it seems -- I, but -- but how does, how -- how will you know when to --?” 

Tharkay shrugged. “Tell me when you’ve lost interest. Or when it stops feeling quite so good and begins to tip toward oversensitivity, I suppose.” 

“I -- whhhh--?” 

_Darling_ Will. “Shall I demonstrate by doing, ashaya?” 

Laurence’s apparent confusion was outweighed only by his assent: _“Fuck_ yes. Erm, please.” And oh, what lovely manners. 

“I am delighted to hear it: you deserve pleasure given for its own sake.” Tharkay smiled -- a slow, ambrosial smile -- and then took Laurence’s hands in hers and placed them at the headboard: something for him to strain against. “Now make yourself fast, my sailor, and remember to keep me informed of your state: hold nothing back.” 

Mmmmmmmmm -- satin skin over warm steel, and so _sensitive,_ so -- and Tharkay was attuned to every gasp, every moan, oh, _yes:_ what a joy, what an honor, to be the one to give him this. To surround him with love; to be soft and _tender,_ with one another, and _oh --_ Laurence’s responses to his mouth were already gratifying enough -- but then Tharkay moved still lower, and Laurence downright _squawked._

He lifted his head to meet Laurence’s stare, raising an eyebrow. “Has no-one ever…?” Laurence shook his head, eyes wide. 

Oh, ohh, _ohhhhh…_ Tharkay could not help the grin that spread across his face: was this how Arkady felt, hunting on the wing? “Well, then,” she murmured, and kissed the inside of Laurence’s thigh. “May I?” 

“Hhhhaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh _yesss,”_ Laurence groaned. “Yes, yessss -- but -- you do not consider it -- ? that is to say --” 

Tharkay grabbed a pillow and slid it under Laurence’s hips -- pushed the heels of his hands into Laurence’s flesh, spreading him wide and holding him there with no little force. “Oh, my beautiful sailor,” he said against that tender, tender skin: _dearest_ Laurence, who had clearly bathed so _very_ thoroughly, in his meticulous way, before initiating the most utterly correct tryst Tharkay had ever been party to. “I think you’ll find I love every part of you.”

“Ohhhhhh, you -- my -- fuck, T-T-Tenzing, you, you -- you. You.” 

One gentle kiss, then another -- and Laurence was quivering all over, nervous as a fawn -- oh, this wouldn’t do; this wouldn’t do at all. 

“Sssssssshhhhhhhhxxxxxxxxxxxxxlhhhhhhhhhhhhlllllllllllllllllp,” said Tharkay, and smacked his lips. “Lpplplplppllpplplpppppppppppppp.” 

Hm -- still not quite -- not quite -- and now the tension had ratcheted up, of course. 

“Xhxhhxhxxhxhxhhhhhhsshhhxhxhxhlxhxxhlxllllllllllllllllllllllllppppppppppppppppp,” said Tharkay, louder this time, but Laurence was _still_ trembling like a leaf in the breeze… 

Tharkay blew a raspberry. 

“Haaaaaaaaaa --!” Excellent. _“Really,_ Tenzing, you -- haaaahahahaaa, ahaaaaa, ahhhhhhhhhhh, haaaa-ooooooo _oooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh_ \--” 

“Decreed to serve most usefully as food,” he murmured into that precious place, catching Laurence’s gaze with his. “For sustenance of life -- mmmmmmmmmm, yes, Will, _yes.”_

And Tharkay took Laurence in hand, stroking him _just_ the way he knew Laurence liked -- twisting his wrist with slow, steady pressure; making circles with his thumb -- as down below he used his lips and tongue: trying different movements, doing his best to draw out those noises he’d only ever heard muffled against his palm or a pillow, humming glad encouragement every time he found one. 

“You -- fuck, oh -- oh _fuck, ohhhhhh --_ aaaaaiiiiiiiiiihhhhh, Tenzing -- Tenzing, _Tenz--_ oh fuck, my -- my -- my love, my compass, my -- ohhhhhh, _fuck,_ that feels good, it -- it --” 

Laurence’s hips bucked -- or tried: but he strained against Tharkay’s hands, as Tharkay held him there with no little force; and then Tharkay was treated to the sight of Laurence’s most intimate valley blossoming before him -- _opening_ for him, oh, oh, he wanted to _devour_ this offering. 

“Nggggghhhhhhnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaa, ha, ahhhhhhh, ohhhhhh, oh, I -- oh, oh, hhhhhhhhhh- _ah!”_ Oh, and Tharkay knew for a certainty that she was the first to hear _this_ note in Laurence’s voice -- that clarion crystal, that lovely bell, _oh --_

“Sing for me, beloved.” She found Will’s eyes again. “Yes? Mmmmmmm, _yes.”_

“Aiiiihhhhh, ah, aiiiiieeeee ffffff-aaaaaa, ah, ah, ahhhhhhh --” Laurence was sobbing for air, and then -- a paroxysm tore through him; and she held on -- pinned Laurence with no little force and kissed him through it, held him as Laurence’s eyes rolled -- his back arched, his lashes fluttered and -- oh, what an unexpected joy to have been wrong in their prediction -- that precious flower was fluttering from open blossom to tightly furled bud and back again -- oh, lovely, lovely, _how_ lovely -- and a few pearls of seed slid like raindrops onto Laurence’s belly. 

Tharkay licked it up in a long stripe, up Laurence’s belly and chest, and then took Laurence’s mouth again in a hot, open-mouthed kiss: sliding his tongue past parted lips, cradling that beautiful face between his hands. “Every part of you, William Laurence, understand?” he said into their kiss. “I love every part of you.” 

  
  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurence: WHY AM I ALWAYS THE LAST ONE TO KNOW THINGS  
> Tharkay: i mean  
> Tharkay: do you really want me to answer that 
> 
> Tharkay: coffee+weed+eatingLaurencesgorgeousass.png  
> Tharkay: name a more iconic trio, i’ll wait
> 
> nb*** to partner: hey c’mere and lemme kiss your face  
> nb***: it’s for research 
> 
> ***
> 
> Q) so are we finally gonna see the Laurence-getting-to-his-knees fantasy that Tharkay *refused to entertain* way back when / Laurence has been dreaming about for literal years? 
> 
> Tharkay, as Aragorn: rise my sailor, you kneel for NO ONE  
> Laurence: *puppy eyes*  
> Tharkay: ok yes fine we can do that one day  
> Tharkay:  
> Tharkay:  
> Tharkay:  
> Tharkay: but it is NOT THIS DAY 
> 
> Q) wtf the threads are a star map? you can do that???? and somebody published a paper about it? and wtf you went and found it and read it, who even are you and why are you like this? 
> 
> Granby: and then Laurence made one for Tharkay and made it into a riddle and Tharkay had to break the code using astronomy and cartography and storytelling and cultural specificity and math???  
> Granby, retching: NERD, NERDS, NERDS, NERDS, NERRRRRRRRRDDDDDDSSSSSSSS
> 
> nb***, as Tharkay: Yeah so I was chewing on what the threads said for a long time (wayyy after I wrote them into the story, lol) because something told me that the encoding process wasn’t just like, a 1:1 lettering system, so the way of presenting information couldn’t be *words* which meant that I had to figure out a) what kind of information could be encoded into the threads and b) think of something that Laurence would have said to Tharkay within those parameters, and also c) something that could be said in both English and Quechua without giving it all the way away, so  
> nb***: Saez-Rodríguez, Alberto (2012). "An Ethnomathematics Exercise for Analyzing a Khipu Sample from Pachacamac (Perú)". Revista Latinoamericana de Etnomatemática. 5 (1): 62–88.  
> https://www.researchgate.net/publication/277265279_An_Ethnomathematics_Exercise_for_Analyzing_a_Khipu_Sample_from_Pachacamac_Peru 
> 
> Actual depiction of my research process: 
> 
> nb***: *types 3 keywords into Google*  
> nb***: oooh, Wikipedia article, excellent  
> nb***: huh, that looks interesting *open in new tab* *scroll*  
> nb***: *open in new tab*  
> nb***: *open in new tab*  
> nb***: *open in new tab*  
> nb***: *open in new tab*  
> nb***: *open in new tab*  
> nb***: *open in new tab*  
> nb***: *open in new tab*  
> nb***: cool, lemme see what the reference section for this page looks like  
> nb***: *approx. nineteen links, three pdfs, and six hours later*  
> nb***:  
> nb***:  
> nb***:  
> nb***: holy SHIT 
> 
> I am around to process in the comments  
> <3 
> 
> PS if you have a minute go check out the new and improved last chapter of Array of Currents and lmk what you think?


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